I’m always pissed when I wake up in the candy factory. Fancy rooms, a tropical dungeon, a bat cave, surrounded by fucking time. Music penetrates the wall, penetrates my soul. In the winter, I hibernate like a mutant koala and I daydream about AC/DC in the dark room of antique and digital clocks. Sometimes, I’m summoned in very odd ways.
I had done my time. I had been to too many concerts. The concert ended, but I didn’t want it to end. “Have a drink on me.” The Brewington Beer, almost like a river. The concert vendors handed out beers to everybody as they walked out. We all huddled into the first nightclub in Brewington, the old storage warehouse on the south side of town. Club 108.9, next to Club 11 (later known as Weber Warehouse). The after-party with my cousin spinning wheels of steel for the underground nightclub. And the power wouldn’t go out. Static. A hanging disco ball, muted movies on big screens, electricity. I was like a fly on the wall. A sweet beast at the Club 108.9 farewell party. There’s not enough drama. #SoulCash