Steaky likes her techno cheerful. She takes tiny pink pills and smiles, her sportsbra soaking wet as she dives back to the dancefloor. The soft part of her loves when she hears happy techno, not mean techno, or precise techno, but techno with that same cerubic grin that she has every time as she goes back to dance.

Steaky and I went to New York's Twilo club a couple a'months ago and stayed in my buddy's apartment. It was a shoebox. A TV, couch, bed and kitchen in one small room. There was a boombox. Before Steaky and I went to bed, I plugged Flowchart in. It's happy. I had this dream, among the stars and garters, soundtracked by Flowchart, and it was a distinctly happy thing. Though it has beat, the rhythm acts as a gentle motivator to each track, rather than dominating as its driving force. It has maddeningly repetitive moments of voice and sample, but these serve best to suck you into the trancelike state at which it is best enjoyed.

In my dream, I was walking down the streets of San Francisco, an earthmother hippie chick on one arm, and a dominatrix on the other. The surreal, summery tunes that textured our backdrop made the sun shine brighter on my pectorals. The loops, washing over themselves, were like the surf in the distance. Even in our brief stops in the hash houses and titty-bars, the music set the tone with momentary drives of pure grinding beat. My shoes were silver and my loincloth was made of a rabbit fur. For a second, the domanatrix was my mother, but it was only a second.

The sun was up after only an hour or two, and soon Steaky was stirring. I asked her how she slept, and she replied: "Happy."

-James P. Wisdom