Back in the days when Emily Montoya worked at Video Library, my brother and I would don our coolest outfits each Wednesday, $1 rental day, because we knew she would be behind the counter. Some 7 years later Emily and I are friends and fellow Meow Wolfers. Emily is a megalithic DJ, DJ Dirt Girl, and I want to go to the mountains, find her in the DJ caves, and ask to be her disciple. 
Over break I was able to see Dirt Girl a few times, once at Unity Bash, an annual Warehouse 21 event, and once at Robocalypse, Meow Wolf’s New Year’s Eve party. Bobreezy, who went to my high school, came home from Brooklyn to make an appearance at Unity Bash. Bobreezy raps about what he represents: “I wake up with pussy in my mouth, ‘cuz that’s what I’m about…” 
In preamble about the next artist, I’ll briefly describe an occasion that occurred in my sleep several years ago. I was sneaking through a state building with a giant multi-colored seal on the floor, which was guarded by the “Rainbow Tiger of the East,” standing as large as a house. A skinny blue creature on stilts controlled the giant multi-colored tiger, and I hid beneath jewel-toned curtains, crawling out to flit between executives on phones and escape across the river. As I swam I heard a cry and the words: “He’s dead!” I saw Keyboard AKA Noah Devore, lying on a stretcher. “Oh no, am I dead?” He said. I told him he didn’t have to be dead he had to sing. “What should I sing?” He asked. I told him to sing about his feelings.  |
Keyboard, sat on stage at Unity Bash, apparently in pain: “pooping out his feelings” with his famous man-boy bedroom-pop. Noah Wingren and I placed a $5 wager over whether Noah D. would be wearing the sparkly-white sweater that he found in the W21 lost and found and wore to a “Dress your Worst” party last summer, which I haven’t seen him out of since.
As Dirt Girl conquered the stage Benji and I rode her sound waves in our true forms: Benji with Gibbon’s arms, and me as a Coyote-Slingshot (as Noah W. has accurately described my style). A friendly spirit took us in, and Benji noted: “…that homegirl handed us WATER, like she was scared we were gonna keel over from dehydrated coyote slingshot gibbon-limbed dance exhaustion... ...or " #DCSG-LDE" as I call it.” Dirt Girl can really work a crowd, and this is what Benji yelled during a dramatic break before a slow-motion voice uttered: “I can really work a crowd.”
Thus it was that I went to the mountains, found Dirt Girl in the DJ caves, and asked to be her disciple. Several days later she gave me a sacred artifact, passed down through the New Mexican DJ lineage: a scratched CD containing the Ableton Live Suite.
Naturally, Dirt Girl ushered us into the arbitrary Roman calendar change with her obese beats and golden transitions. Robocalypse had 800 guests this year, and I ran into every homie I’ve ever known. Then I ran into every homie I’ve ever known as I blindly danced into them, wearing Rainbow Symphony Glasses. I opted for a traditional 60’s-Mod-Wind-Up-Robot costume and painted plentiful cardboard silver accordingly, my key getting loosed amidst the writhing sea of androids. El Museo Cultural was transformed into the inside of a cyborg’s brain, arcade games, bars, sculptures and robo-squatter’s quarters littered the warehouse space. Upon entering I was offered free admission by my Meow Wolf pal David, and then given four free drink tickets. After carrying conversations with friend’s parents from childhood, old besties and throngs of acquaintances, I carried the Recently Dethroned, Alcoholic Robot Mining Princess (Jack) home. Some drunk strangers mistook my yellow car for a taxi, so I drove them home to: “Fiesta Street” where the party doesn’t ever end. 
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