RAVERS WANT TO KEEP THEIR PARTIES GOING

Now they advertise in record stores. The psychedelic fliers announcing
raves are stacked next to the weekly papers, right by the door.

For veteran ravers, who have waited in the frigid cold outside a
coffee shop to get the address and time of an illicit warehouse party,
covertness was half of the lure. Now, it's disappearing fast.

In the vernacular of pop culture, circa 1990, there used to be this
thing called a rave, a night of blaring techno music and dancing,
drugs and glow sticks, all under the leaky ceiling of an abandoned
warehouse in the worst part of town.

Now, a decade later, this underground utopia of music, love and
euphoria is being gobbled up by mainstream commercialism.

Clubs are hosting "rave nights." Middle-schoolers are buying
rave-inspired fashions at the Gap. The rave scene is even the focus of
three current films: "Groove," "Human Traffic" and "Better Living
Through Circuitry."

But as rave followers emerge from the underground, they find
themselves scrutinized and criticized. They feel trapped.

They want to preserve the edginess of their lifestyle, the all-night
dancing, even the drugs. But they know that the drugs, Ecstasy and GHB
and Special K, earn them a bad name. They know lives have been lost.
But they want to do their own policing, and they want mainstream
society's blessing to do so.

On a Saturday night, at the Rainbo Roller Rink on North Clark Street,
a thousand young people gather to forget the burden they carry.
Tonight, they just want to live a lifestyle they love.

10 p.m., Clarke's Diner on Belmont

"It's kind of this cartoon world," said Brian Begley, flashing his
Cheshire-cat grin. "It's the way people want to be, but don't express."

Begley, a 21-year-old computer technician, is a two-year veteran
raver. But he doesn't use the word because it's blacklisted by
mainstream society.

Once upon a time, raves, a 1980s British import, were hidden from the
media and law enforcement. That was before Chicago's aldermen in May
set a $10,000 maximum fine for DJs and promoters for unlicensed raves.

For Begley, a rave isn't just a party. It is a way of life that starts
with a new pair of baggy pants. Then some gel to slick back his blond
hair. He brought along his "carpet" hat--a brown fishing hat so fuzzy
the nickname is well-deserved--in case his hair gets out of hand.

Girls, he says, look more "candy"--cutesy, that is.

"I was going to wear my angel wings," said Jillian Lynn, a 21-year-old
education major at DePaul University, "but it's pouring out. I don't
want them ruined."

"Well, I also don't let her get too candy," added her 19-year-old
boyfriend, Eric Kinsley, also known by his DJ name, Liquid Giraffe.

Kinsley, lured into the scene three years ago, is a "straight-edge
raver." He doesn't smoke, hardly drinks, doesn't do the drugs. He says
he's there purely for the music, the atmosphere and the friends he
meets.

These days, more are being cautious, as popular rave drugs are laced
with unknown chemicals by black market dealers out to make a quick
buck.

Just last month, two suburban teens died from overdoses of PMA, a more
potent and dangerous form of Ecstasy that has killed in Canada and
Australia.

The deaths have alarmed parents and their children. In Chicago,
"Chi-Town Kids That Care" formed, modeled after the national
DanceSafe, which tests drugs and passes out fliers on drug safety at
raves.

Ravers know the popular drugs like walking medical encyclopedias. They
say they know the risks of each one, and also how to help someone who
is having complications.

"Once a month," answered Brian Glasnapp. That's his self-imposed rule
on using Ecstasy. "I go to raves because I love dancing, not because
of the drugs. When I started walking over here, I felt the adrenaline
just coming."

Midnight, Rainbo Roller Rink

Tonight, the rave is called "Pride, A Deeper Love." On the weekend of
the Gay Pride Parade, the slogan is in sync with the rave philosophy:
blind tolerance.

Perhaps that's one reason young people--teens and young adults, black
and white, gay and straight--wait outside the Rainbo Roller Rink for
their all-night escape from reality.

Three security guards--all off-duty Chicago police officers--tower
over the teenage ravers, who hover around the metal doors.

Chicago police can take secondary jobs, and many do. But this specific
job may seem to clash, because narcotics are present. This event was
properly licensed. And, as one said, at least "we keep the kids safe."
Rave organizers hope the police presence at the door keeps the law
outside.

But Chicago police spokesman Sgt. Robert Cargie said off-duty officers
have to "take police action, the least of which is calling 911," if
they see anything illegal. And at the Cook County Sheriff's
Department, spokesman Bill Cunningham says officers will raid no
matter who is at the door.

The cost of operating the rave comes to $40,000, including the
colorful fliers, hot DJs like Jevon Jackson and diva Barbara Tucker,
and three months of nonstop phoning, e-mailing and networking.

"It's worth it because we give these kids a good creative outlet,"
said the 19-year-old organizer, Bob Klosinski, himself a raver since
13. "Kids these days don't know how to express themselves, so they
bundle it up and explode."

Klosinski has stared this teenage angst in the face before. He has had
run-ins with the law. He has gotten rid of his body piercings, and
made amends with his parents, but he's not ready to give up the rave
scene.

"This is about finding out who you are," he said. "It's time to be
happy, live a good life and do good things."

Still, the rave is not the same as in the old days, not with an
18-and-over age limit, the event permit and the insurance.

3:30 a.m., on the dance floor

They look like giant toddlers at a Halloween party gone
wild.

Through the curtain of artificial smoke and laser lights come
pig-tails bouncing, faces glittering silver, and arms lacing the air
like ribbons swaying in the wind. One boy in an orange vest twirls
colorful glow sticks.

Three hours into the rave, the energy on the wooden floor of the
roller rink builds to a fevered crescendo. The heartiest of ravers
squeeze their way to the front by the DJ, where they lean against the
speakers and loll like sauna bathers, soaking in sound. Others sit by
the wall, pupils dilated.

"He's ass-planted," one raver explained, as he rubbed some menthol gel
on his hand to cover the nose and mouth of a raver high on Ecstasy.
"If you take too much E at a time, you get that way. This stuff helps
you breathe easier."

Drug suppliers, typically wearing "Ecko" brand sweat shirts, shuffle
around the dance floor, chanting softly, "Want some pills? K?"

Tonight, only a small minority of ravers seem to be
high.

Perhaps it's because the group is older.

"I'm all about ID'ing, anything to give us a good rep," Begley said.
"Some of the 15-year-olds, they don't know how to be
responsible."

Ecstasy, a hallucinogen, is popular because the music has a
mechanized, relentless beat and shimmering soundscapes. To someone
"rolling" on Ecstasy, it creates a magical sensory experience.

But it is also illegal. Chicago police arrested 62 people at a rave in
February for disorderly conduct and drug use. The Cook County
sheriff's office made 11 drug arrests in May in Palatine. Other
arrests have been made in south suburban Harvey.

But tonight, these young ravers, sweat dripping down their faces, are
focused on the music and swirling glow sticks. Tonight, they are
worshipping a lifestyle that sheds all social norms and creates a
utopia--if only for a night.

8 a.m., "The Rocks," Foster Avenue Beach

The daylight cracks its first smiles on the exhausted partygoers,
dangling their feet over the rocks, comparing notes on the parties
from the night before. Usually there are one to five raves on a
weekend in the Chicago area.

Under broad daylight, away from the watchful eyes of security guards,
the setting is more relaxed and less orderly. Some teenagers rolling
on Ecstasy chew on pacifiers to stop the involuntary teeth-grinding.
Others walk around like zombies, looking for dealers.

"Got any K?" "Got any pills?"

In these early morning hours, fishermen are already on the Lake
Michigan pier, waiting patiently for their catch. Runners are training
for the next marathon.

So these young people in their bright-colored jerseys and sagging
jeans aren't alone. Still, the smell of marijuana wafts through the
air. The money exchanges look suspicious. But childish grins give away
their ages.

The scene's faithful resent that the drug stigma has clung to raves.
They contend that it is a culture celebrating acceptance in a teenage
world filled with pressures.

They want people to understand that. Raves and music industry leaders
have met with Chicago aldermen to explain why this lifestyle draws
thousands.

But some ravers worry that they will sacrifice tolerance for
acceptance. Some would rather brave the scrutiny than relinquish their
outsider nature. They accept drugs as part of the culture, but they
don't want anyone to get hurt.

The lifestyle is a choice they've made. It's a choice they're sticking
with.

Hey, where are the "doughnut eaters," they say. They comin' to bust us
yet?