bruised hips from doing the bump too much



the place owned by notorious area nightclub owner
Larry. One word for him: “shady.” It had started as
a cozy bar with wooden booths that served tasty
Long Island Teas. You know, mason jars. Within a
year, the bar turned cheeseball central. The booths
were replaced with bleachers to cram more people
into the building. Fifty-cent teas on Wednesday
nights served in plastic keg cups. You mostly
tasted alcohol. No one complained much. If we
wanted a real bar we’d go across the street to


A sure sign that a bar is losing money? Drinks are
dirt cheap. Fifty-cent teas.


One night, the place burned down. Word on the
street: Our man Larry had torched the joint for
insurance money. Highly-placed sources – a guy
who knew a guy who worked there – had Larry
transporting stereo equipment after closing that
very night. A friend of mine worked at another of
Larry’s clubs as a weekend deejay. The following
Friday night, Larry made his entrance. My deejay
buddy claimed he played the Talking Heads’
“Burning Down the House.” That would be hilarious
if true, but said pal was always full of shit.