Planes, No Trains, and Pooled Uber Rides: Pilgrimage and Finding DJ Harvey

You might be in the wrong profession if you spend forty-five minutes staring at the ceiling every morning trying to muster up enough fortitude to shower, put on clothes, and drive to work. This was my daily exercise in existential examination, and it usually meant I arrived at the job site very late, even on days when showering seemed like a task too tall. Of course, I had the perfect excuse for being late to my construction laborer day job. I spent most nights moonlighting as a rugged doorman with a fair bit of party sense in an artsy enclave of Honolulu called Chinatown.

One late November morning, my night owl spirit guide instructed me to shift my focus from the mosaic of cracked paint on my ceiling and onto DJ Harvey’s tour dates page at ResidentAdvisor.net. My favorite DJ would be in LA the next night, co-headlining a Thanksgiving-eve party at a club called Union with another of my all-time favorites, Seth Troxler.

Partying and working in Chinatown, I was always within three degrees of DJ Harvey. When I first came to Hawai’i in 2009 I spent many nights dancing at his club, 39 Hotel. However, I never saw him behind the decks or otherwise. I knew many of the eccentric, local DJs who had reaped the benefits of his influence. As a doorman, I treated his oft quoted line “good clubs should have courteous, friendly security staff” like gospel.

To keep my sanity in the intellectually and spiritually draining world of commercial construction, I usually popped in my earbuds and listened to lectures from modern spiritual masters at my day job. This made digging ditches and offloading drywall seem less demeaning. As such, I had listened to enough lectures from the American Buddhist Jack Kornfield on the importance of pilgrimage to know that I must fly to LA to find DJ Harvey.

With no wife, no kids, two forms of income, and a sexy but lesbian Puerto Rican roommate who only had emotional needs, my responsibilities were few. I was optimistic that my bank account could survive a lone night of partying in LA. I left my boss a weak voicemail laced with carefully placed coughs and sneezes. After which, I threw a bunch of random clothes in a knapsack and headed to the airport. 

Five hours later, I touched down at LAX. Prior to leaving Honolulu, I did myself a slight favor and booked a room at a Holiday Inn Express that was within an earshot of the airport. When I arrived at the Express, I was shocked to learn that the hotel's computer system was down and I couldn't check in. Nor could the dozen or so proper vacationers around me who were losing their minds. People who probably didn’t cry at their grandmother’s funeral were lost in deep emotional turmoil.

Amidst the Y2k like chaos, I grabbed the attention of a slick staffer named Mario. I slid him $150, had him draft up a hand-written receipt, and within minutes I had a key. Once in my room I tossed on the television and kicked up my feet. There were no seedy pay-per-view options, so I put the Lakers game on and attempted to figure out where I was in relation to Union nightclub. At about the same time, I received a text fom my cousin, Eddy. He let me know that he was staying in LA’s Koreatown. Although I was pressed for time and still very unaware of where I was in the world, I made plans to see him before the show.

When my Uber arrived, I was surprised to see three other male passengers in the car. My first experience riding in a pooled Uber was cramped and strange, highlighted by sitting bitch in between two Asian men with thick thighs while the punkish guy in the passenger seat bobbed his head to music that didn’t exist. I expected our driver, who was dressed for a night of clubbing in Marrakesh, to make a few stealthy left turns in his fancy sedan and, in an instant, arrive in Koreatown. Instead, it took 28 minutes to drop off the first passenger and ultimately 45 minutes to get to Eddy’s doorstep.

LA is not a walking city...

My cousin Eddy was an off-the-grid character who dated recording artists, took jobs as a marijuana trimmer, and was known to do some underwear modeling on the side. So, I wasn’t surprised to find him shacking up with three very attractive Red Bull promo girls in a two-bedroom apartment. Probably at no cost to him so long as he didn’t wear a shirt or cut his shoulder length hair.

No one in the apartment knew of DJ Harvey, but then again, most Romans of the time were largely unaware of Jesus. One girl in Eddy’s harem was keen to get out of the house and offered to be my party pal for the night. Eddy gave his blessing with the sign of the cross. Within minutes we were on our way to Union which, rather miraculously, was just a few blocks away. Everything was coming together with a strong sense of divine intervention.

Like Puritans fleeing persecution, my party pal and I scurried up Union’s steps and onto the shores of the warehouse-like main dancehall. Neon lights and flashing signs with slogans like “ALL YOUR DREAMS FULLFILLED” greeted us. Through the healthy stew of psychedelic color, I caught a glimpse of the DJ dancing over the controls in a mystical haze. He was kitted out in leather pants, a leather vest, and he dawned a full-on leather gimp mask wrapped in metal buttons and zippers. It was DJ Harvey in the flesh.

His BDSM themed get-up was fitting. With each turn of a DJ Harvey-selected-record I found myself bound by ecstatic sound quality. Harvey collectively cracked us with his love whip, leaving me with no choice but to dance under the cocoon of soul-sonic vibrations pouring down on the dancefloor like hot wax. Each step was like someone had taken a feather to the soles of my feet. There was no need for a safe-word; we submitted to Harvey’s will and all he really wanted was for us to get lost in the dance.

5am came in a flash. I skipped back to the Express to grab my scant personal effects. Fortunately, my Uber to LAX wasn’t pooled. Once in the airport, the TSA agents were kind as I dragged my happy ass through security. Although, the drug dogs licked their chops. I began to repeat the mantra “it’s illegal to have drugs, not to be on them.” 

Seven hours later, I was back in Hawai’i sleeping on a Samoan friend’s couch during her family’s Thanksgiving brunch.

“Why is he so tired?” My friend’s concerned mother asked.

My friend put down her drumstick and responded, “He went to LA last night.”

Words by Keoni K. Wright
Images Courtesy of DJ Harvey's Instagram @djharveysgeneralstore