new years eve 809am

it/s 809am on new years eve 2020. I just ate two day-old vegan iced cake donuts naked in bed, alone. I thought of saving them for later, for some party trick. But there will be no parties , and no tricks of any description, unless they barter dollar bin classical LP’s Greco-roman wrestling. However, there will be walking the dardenne brothers films in their red envelope to the mail box in the rain. There will be tea. Beyond that , your guess is as good as mine. This is a new years eve tailor made for the introvert, the misanthropic, the immune compromised, and the broke. There will be no winter sports blasted off the barramundi cistern at 6am after a 12 hour bar shift, as a blizzard rages outside. There will be NPR on repeat. You will not be the only sober person amongst 350 fucked up jesus lizard fans beer breathing their way to a new year in a cavernous club 100 yards away. You will be the only sober person in your apartment , as the feline has ripped into the cat nip to prepare. You won/t be with blues explosion and the Dresden dolls at some shithole rock box in downtown san diego playing a new years eve radio show and eating your dinner at 2am in a downtown 7-11, ergo you will not have the sight of Amanda palmer preparing and unwinding shamelessly, beautifully and naturally in a room full of wives. You will not have to explain that she is one of a kind, an enigma, and that we rarely share the dressing room. Nor will you have to scream ‘less is more’ at the 110 minute mark . instead you can listen to blues explosion and the Dresden dolls, loud, on the stereo in your soft pants, and hope that 2021 doesn’t start with world war 3 There’s certainly no way that you will be smoking opium and drinking corona’s with your then girlfriend and her best friend and your weird friend in your then girlfriend’s expansive sunset boulevard abode. All you really wanted to do that night was go to thelonious monster at raji’s but instead there was opium , turkey sandwiches, echo and the bunnymen , and a naked Egyptian girl. The apex of my life at 20 years old. This year there will be toasted cheese sandwiches, the corona virus, and melatonin. There will be no ed hall and doo rag at the kilowatt, or a lovely family oyster and wine centric early bird meal at nicks cove in tomales bay, but there might be schitt’s creek and pork belly with celeriac mash and brussell sprouts. There will be no Times Square ’98 NYPD shakedowns for scaffolding without a permit, 10 minutes after the snowman delivered and miraculously and thankfully the schlub with the club didn’t find my giddy up as he was more interested in banging bodies off the security gates of the espn zone, so I scarpered after release. Straight into a Dominican coke bar where I celebrated freedom with a key party, old friends and a gun toting Puerto rican midget. If you/ve never heard ‘tranquilo amigo’ in an german accent you haven’t lived. Today I will knock back zinc lozenges with florida orange juice and imagine the best of diane diprima read to me in bed in a Melbourne accent. There will be no beach house wine and food fest where everyone is too fucked out or fucked off to make it to midnight. Today there will be schitts creak on the couch in the Heisman pose at 10am. There will definitely be no kissing strangers in line for the bathroom avoiding the midnight toast because you both had no one to kiss, nor will you walk out the door together 5 minutes later to spend the weekend smoking hash and drinking cold cans of cider in bed speaking Spanish and listening to the clash. But you might manage a coffee outside variety if it stops raining, wondering if that woman with the matte black retrospec and the Elisabeth moss profile is a local and is she on tinder and does she like miserable middle aged men that are delusional and unemployed. Nope, by circumstance or choice, there will be no togetherness today , tomorrow , or next week, but there will be post cards or emails or text messages or walks across the bridge. There will be the perpetual goal of staying positive whilst remaining negative as the American experiment dies a painful and public death, and our friends and neighbors and friends of strangers struggle to survive. We will baby step our way through minefields of the last 4 years and the next 3 weeks , and maybe next year we can celebrate with baseball bats and hazmat suits at the publicly funded beltway batting cages. Or maybe we will gather at rockaway beach or the 40 foot or block island or sunset beach and wash off the previous year(s). or maybe we don suits and topcoats and cocktail dresses or ballgowns and shiver under umbrellas outside grogan’s castle lounge, together as a unit and friends til the end.

Al-Kwharzimi blues

Yes, we talk about algebra. When he is upset at 830am on Monday , we talk about algebra. When I hear him speaking insolently to his third teacher of the year, we talk about algebra. We talk about algebra when said prematurely ends the zoom meeting on multiple occasions. We talk about algebra when he asks why he is taking alkgebra for what feels like the third year running. We talk about algebra when he asks what algebra has to do with life and why aren/t they focusing more on ‘ mental math’ which will serve him more later in life in a more finite way. We talk about algebra when I can offer no assistance with algebra. We talk about algebra nearly every day he is in an assisted learning period that doesn’t speak about or assist in any algebraic manner. When the latest algebra teacher writes to address his performance in algebra, we talk about algebra. When he says that he will get an A in every other class to make up for his difficulties in algebra, we talk about algebra. I tell him to simply bite off a little bit each day to get through to the finish line. We talk about algebra until we are blue in the face before the school wants to talk about algebra. We/ve been speaking about algebra for 14 weeks since teacher number 1 left to go teach algebra elsewhere, or maybe she was sick of algebra and she left to teach ‘mental math’ or humanities. I speak of how great geometry is after algebra, and that there are a minimum of 5 more years of math that won’t make sense when we talk about algebra, but I keep that little chestnut to myself, nor do I mention the usual calculus requirement for university that undoes the loftiest humanities gpa. He asks what the point of algebra is and I wish I had an answer, as I asked those same questions to any and everyone 40 years ago, but that is ancient history. And on the subject of history, can we talk about the importance of history and how it often repeats itself and how society ignores it, when we are not talking about algebra?

12/16/20

this is 54. First warning wake up call about another death in the community. Not anyone I knew personally, but someone personally connected to most everyone I know in new york of a certain ilk. Seems like a weekly occurrence these days. Another good one gone. 54 is waking up to more death at 4am, and to a head splitting migraine. Am I stroking out? Does the latest bout of ‘who can upset who the most’ finally break the camels back? I lie in the dark thinking about any other year but this one. I am 54 , everyone is taking the ghost move out. Why do I keep on keeping on? The answer lies sleeping 10 feet away. Were it not for that beautiful young man. I would’ve checked out some time ago- physically or mentally- I would join the pre pandemic parade , the constant cavalcade of good times and bad decisions, my governing ethos for most of my life. Or maybe I would check out, a walk in the woods, as it were. Try something new for once. 54 is tepid tea in a chipped mug at a dirty table with peanut butter and marmite on toast. It is facebook messages from far flung friends from a previous life, when if you had a care , you didn’t share. It is wrestling a teenager for 45 minutes to force them 3 feet to school. It is staring at an overpriced artisanal ginger bread house that will be raccoon food quicker than you can say mar a lago. 54 is staring at the phone and thinking about 25. Pissed up with an alabaster skinned full lipped law student watching joe strummer front the pogues at a boxing venue in Dublin, where you get worked over by the bouncers for dancing on a chair and you pass up the chance to meet the man himself later because he’s a hero and you don’t wanna blow it , instead you settle for late drinks with now dead friends, and some later lithe maneuvers on a dirty mattress on a distressed phibsboro floor. 54 is feeding the cat whilst dreaming of coyotes and wondering where it all went wrong. But it/s your birthday and it/s home school and it/s snacks and leftover tacos and brian Lehrer and the BBC and Brooklyn 9-9 and the latest episode of of the culture wars – American edition- playing out one plagiarized or unoriginal thought at a time across all social media platforms. This is not fukuoka 2004 where jon spencer led 800 japanese kids in a resounding rendition of ‘happy birthday’ followed by one of the greateast meals of all time in a garden shed powered by a moped situated on the side of the road somewhere. Grilled pork, rich ramen, and ice cold asahi’s with peter arsenault, jon spence, Russell simins, Judah bauer and the creative man crew. That whole trip was possibly the greatest tour of all time, and I have been on some doozies. 54 is text messaged greetings from your ex wife at 7am. There will be blizzard preparedness which does not entail parker posey and/or dairy gain, but salt and shovels and sugar and snacks. I lived nearly every birthday from 16-39 hoping not to make the next one, so this is merely 40+14. Remember the 40th? A great meal at dok suni pre children with a group of friends that aren’t really friends anymore., but I think are all parents. Back room djs at the beauty bar with more friends both local and out of town, a further trip to motor city where out of town newly weds (now divorced) rolled our rocks and battled for cistern space and plasticine bags delivered by human drones. Where some numbnuts followed me around badgering me for being a cop and I threatened him with more violence than he threatened me. Why do trustafarian morons always accuse me of being either ruling class or a cop? I don’t wear filson or brogans, I am a dumpster diver. Funny to a point, and I could surely deal with either the spoils of progeny or a pension to drain today.. 54 hunches over marbled notebooks and a giant piece of millennial fiction waiting for the peacock premier membership to kick in, wondering if there is anything to look forward to this weekend. It is being covid compliant so the career can be dredged freom the depths of the gowanus so I don/t have to explain the 9 month gap in employment to some Amazon HR imbecile. It is being present for the young man growing in the other room and inexpertly guiding him towards adulthood knowing that we are here for him for any and all of his needs. 54 is is looking forward to movie discounts next year and not cbgb/s blow outs with dancing girls, killer bands, and brownies in tampon boxes. Today we drink tea, coffee if we are smart. Tonight we sleep, and tomorrow we shovel.

christmas eve sports

Last year I was playing tonsil hockey on the brisk and festive Brooklyn promenade with an almond eyed bombshell, and this year it is pocket pool on a broken down sofa in my ill fitting soft pants on a lonely stretch of an industrial block in east Williamsburg.

news flash

a civil war alert has been issued by facebook , twitter , and tik tok as an increase in online chatter and car loads of goobers seen gacked out and lead footing in piggly wiggly parking lots around flyoverville. It also seems as if police forces are staging a nationwide sick out , in anticipation of the unrest. Federal informants have been flooding tip lines after the goober riots in the nations capital this weekend. There are stories of bacchanalian all you can eat chick fil a and commercial grade laxative buffets and forced elephant walks in militiagan marsh lands and Appalachian strip[ malls. There have been an uptick in smash and grabs from national chain convenience stores and pharmacies in the theft of antihistimines, personal lubricant, and two liter soda bottles, according to one source. We asked ‘what/s with the kilts?”, to which our source replied ‘ it is easier to boof additional ordinance or the methamphetamine and dr pepper tampons that the boogalosers prefer as performance enhancers” . we are following this story and will update accordingly as the alternative facts dictate.

homeschool monday

the day starts easily enough- a steaming pile of fresh cat vomit on the white rug squashed between my long neglected toes. Beautiful. After not being particularly privy to pets for the better part of a quarter of a century, the pandemic has rendered me a cat person. Or a defacto cat person, as it were. But hey , what’s the protocol here? i/m a reformed puker, i/ve barfed the alcoholic rainbow since 1980- a 40 year Technicolor yawnathon. But I have quit drinking, there/s only been a coupla food related portions of barfaroni since. Anyone want a cat? The threat of feeding the feline to the coyotes does not carry the same weight when my spirit animals are not in the back yard. But I digress. I hose off the kibbles and drag the razor across my face and flip on NPR for the early morning delivery of bad news. I fire up the cooker to experiment with the plethora of donated vegetables from the night before. More than junior and I can effectively eat in a week. I try some creative ‘stouping’, you know something etween stock and soup, just hold it by the wings and let it fly. For breakfast, I choke down a coupla stale cupcakes and a mug of tea, in the golden hour of trying to wake the kid up . I cook the food in hopes of coaxing a friend across the freeway for a quick drive by with her dropkick. Wishful thinking- 45 seconds of IRL interaction on a bitter day. And its now 815. First call for the reluctant scholar. First trip to the sleep chamber to raise the dead. I will make no less than 5 more trips over the next 30 minutes to wake the dead. Lately , I have been debating a boat horn. I mean, those work on the rock beardos blissfully farting their ways through ambien flecked anna Kendrick dreams after their previous night’s worth of pbr, Adderall , blown bus calls, and married women, but that/s another story altogether. The teen finally crawls to the table at about 845am, wrapped in a fleece blanket and two days ago/s clothes. He works his way through a simple breakfast of orwashers sourdough toast with vegan butter and commercial grade orange juice. He has 30 minutes to get his ship together, which he mostly does. 30 minutes to scrape the teeth, set up his rig- 30 minutes to the zoom room. The first of 9 each day but Friday, and I am the 1st air cavalry of helicopter parents at this point, and it noramllly works. Breakfast is mostly lovely- shared youtube videos or maybe a song or 3. Home room on Monday is mostly talking about the weekenbd , or lack thereof. We don/t do much. We are covid cautious and covid compliant in our endeavors. Home room is soon over and morphs into algebra, a regular cause of tears. Oh algebra, the one class where parents are useless. I was shit at algebra but crawled to the finish, and the trait has certainly been passed down with more tears and mixed results. And clearly the nuns didn/t beat the equations into his mother, back in the day. algebra is a problem , an dwe are now 3 teachers into the year. First period algebra on a Monday is almost sadistic. Fortunately it is followed by an assisted work period, which today is free for some reason. I use the time to run to staples to send out an ebayed Fernando Valenzuela blanket, that ups then loses. I arrive back for period 3, science. I like to eaves drop, as they are doing elements of geology, volcanoes for the moment. I wish he would do them without headphones so I might learn something, because brian Lehrer is doing my head in. I potter about the kitchen , replying to emails and tidying up some accounting from the previous weeks shows at Brooklyn bowl, dropping in for my hourly snack drop- Pumpkin bread for Spanish today. Proud of him persisting in Spanish after so many years of hating French and the correlative French teachers. Also I can help in Spanish, if need be. I heat up some cream of tomato soup and serve up with oyster crackers. So fortunate to share lunch with my ever growing and slowly maturing teen. This silver lining is one of many that is not lost on me. That 10 seconds of caloric inhalation, a midday check in , before he rushes to roblox to game with his mates spread across the tri state at this point. A moment to breathe and clean up for me, and prep for the post lunch transition, which is sometimes a struggle. But today is Monday, music day. he has had the same music teacher for 4 years now, and for that I am grateful. His teacher generally pulls out some classic rock track if ronan does not provide guidance. This week it is kansas’ ‘dust in the wind’- ronan has a pretty respectable upper range and it is wonderful to listen to him try to work through the piano and vocal parts, though he likes to goof a bit, and I can hear the frustration on behalf of his music teacher, as he attempts to prep all of his students pieces for a remote performance in a few days. Luckily I get a call that says that I need to get some horn mics and a protools rig to a vendor in Bushwick by 3pm. Ergo, I bundle up and hit the bricks to be back by period 8 ELA, and have as few external trasnactions as possible whilst stretching the legs and expanding the lungs. And that I do, with the help of a citibike and simple avoidance of traffic laws, I am back in time for period 8. He is a good participator in his English class, i am proud of him for speaking his mind and bringing good comparisons in from his learned experience. I put on PJ Harvey’s “dry” demos, an essential piece of my 23rd year. Who knew that the gawky songsmith from yeovil with the beautiful neck would have such longevity. These raw demos feel so prescient. I will take anything pure to make me feel 23 again- marginally employed without a care in the world besides a block of hash, a pack of Samson doux, 20 pints of Guinness, and the company of some knockout with a nose ring, combat boots, ripped tights, and v]black cotton panties to span time with, but hey, snap, we are talking about school right now- coming of age to be exact, not time travelling. I ruminate and scroll twitter and wait for period 9. period 9 is vocal ensemble, the last class of the day. pretty wild that the teacher can keep 6 kids together in the zoom room. They/ve done some cool songs in the past, and if you’ve never heard ‘scarborough fair’ as done by jello Biafra, well, you have not lived. I have to turn the PJ Harvey up, I want school to be out so we can leave the house, and it soon is, as we head out into the cold in search of a Christmas tree. Apparently Christmas trees in the 2020 boho Riviera is 60 bucks for a Charlie brown which have been rebranded as a ‘tabletop tree’. I have to audibly laugh at the Carhart guy, as junior even exclaims ‘it/s a mere sapling, how much does a tree cost?” valid question. I wonder where the convicts with the black of the lorry tied up on some corner in a bubble wrapped caravan and a wheezy mongrel whose bark is worse than its bite. Where are my people for this? Instead, dejected, like Charlie brown and his sack of rocks, we shuffle off home- tree less and enjoying the greenpoint Christmas lights on a cold December evening. Out of the house and off our screens, sniffing and sucking in the winter air, just two guys walking back to our house and an evening’s worth of BROOKLYN 9-9 on hulu, a day well spent.

what about the crescent city?

18 states 18 states of sedition 18 states of denial 18 states to boycott 18 states of despair 18 states of goobers 18 states of goons 18 states of racists 18 states of thieves 18 states of traitors 18 states of pigs 18 states of covidiots 18 states of lies 18 states to sanction 18 states to forget 18 states to flyover 18 states to flush

a perfect game

As if this nick cave album, recorded in quarantine, weren/t emotional enough for the current state of affairs, what makes magic these days? I mean it is not the news or Netflix or a trip to the farmers market , though 2 outta 3 aint bad. Nope, it was something as simple as 6 days and nights in a windowless Brooklyn bowl with the hold steady, and a select group of individuals, massive nights gone virtual. i/ve been lucky enough to be involved In a few events that have felt bigger than the moment, transscendantal as it were- those nights were rock was piece of a far bigger puzzle. I can remember a 48 hour trip to tel aviv with mercury rev that was book ended by a sunrise from the dan hotel on one side and a trip to Jerusalem on the other, actually the unedited 40 year old virgin on the tel aviv /heathrow flight 3 drinks in a scant few hours from standing at the wailing wall , where half the plane was howling in laughter. Or a trip to mexico city with the yeah yeah yeahs in 2002 where the crowd was so amped up that they out yelled a very substantial p.a., I can never hear the ramones again without thinking of those shows. Or maybe the day after the 2016 election, again in mexico city, with primal scream, where bobby Gillespie lead the 2000 strong crowd into a spirited chant of ‘fuck trump’ before launching into a scintillating version of ‘swastika eyes’. There are more that come to mind, like standing in the midst of 30,000 partied up Brazilians at a strokes gig at 3am in an amusement park in sao paolo, screaming ‘new york city cops’ at the top of my lungs, a never ending caiprinha in my hand, arms around aaron brody or chris bell for 90 minutes 20 again- or maybe the 3 hour broken social scene last show in rio a couple of nights later, their last show for years, and the last time I ever drank cachaca or cane sugar or ate a shrimp and cream cheese pizza with a bombshell Brazilian promoter rep and a bunch of Canadians. And again in Manchester afew years later with broken social scene the day after the bombing at the ariana grande concert where most of the city had been locked down and kevin drew managed to coax johnny marr onto the stage. Maybe more, dancing like a fool to kylie minogue in a field on Halloween 30 miles outside of bogota with the young and the beautiful of Colombia in some wild ass costumes. Or every night for 2 weeks one December in japan with jon spencer blues explosion, where there were 50 people waiting for the band wherever we went- hotel, venue, train station- that whole trip was a sobering affair , on the powers of rock and roll , whilst the world went to shit. This week felt altogether different. I have been working for the hold steady for about 7 years , and we have been doing these residencies for about 5 years. This year was going to be a great year for the band- London/Melbourne/Nashville/Atlanta/Denver/los angeles/Toronto/ and then the 5 year massive nights 4 night stand at the bowl. These shows have been an amazing part of the year for me- really the only touring I look forward to anymore, these Brooklyn shows being more special still, as you get to walk to work everyday and sleep in your own bed, and see people from all over, whilst enjoying the Christmas lights of manhattan avenue. But thanks to a a global pandemic, a feckless government and an astoundingly ignorant populace, this year was different. No confetti, no beer breath , no sweaty and boozy throngs, no guest lists or fried chicken. No late nights and no pretty women to admire from up close or afar. No small talk or big hugs. But there would be rock, and rock there was. 6 nights of glorious guitar riffs and booming bass, 6 nights of back up vocals and timely drums. 6 nights of tinkled ivories and glorious words. Choruses for the ages from 6 feet away. America’s greatest bar band playing in one of its great small venues to the zoom room in the sky. Now I am not one for the zoom room, you wont catch me dressed up for the marketing meeting or toobin at trivia. i/ve begged off of every possible meet up or hang as possible. I can zoom for the kids teacher conferences, marveling at those 20 somethings ability to keep their kids engaged for 35 hours per week from the confines of their airy living rooms or darkened alcove studio apartments. Nor have I lined up to watch some haircut in a fitted designer shirt singing earnestly into their Iphone whilst banging away some semblance of a chord progression on their hummingbird. Not for me. I prefer it all IRL, and in the case of 2020, IRL has been fewer and further between. This was altogether different, inspirational and cathartic. Real rock and roll surrounded by video monitors of fans flung far and wide, with the band in the fishbowl, but was the script flipped? For three nights I found myself choked up and crying behind my mask , at the scenes playing out on computer screens around the globe – it was this beautiful amalgamation of g rated chat roulette, a ball park kiss cam, and a silent room rater sound tracked beautifully by your favorite rock and roll band. People in their pjs with their pets, or in their tees with their toddlers or their teens- faces familiar or foreign, alone or together, ear buds in the basement, speakers cranked and drinks drank. Signs of hope and strength emanating from the mother in laws basement or the music room at home, unity and compassion. Beauty in numbers. I was enthralled by the scenes from the screens. 9 months of our respective lives spent staring intently and intensely at some device or another looking for a connection. Here the curtain was pulled back on the fans , an open book in the lives of the devoted whilst their heroes reeled off 78 songs in 6 hours over 3 nights to 7000 people sequestered the world over. Through the monitors we ran the gamut of the 2020 experience with great artwork and bad lighting. Messages scrawled on pizza boxes in Pennsylvania and Iphones on the beach in Waikiki and every variation on the theme in between. The messages from the fans , these wonderfully loyal and irreverent goofballs, was simple. We are not alone, we will get through this together, there is no salve greater in dark times than the healing powers of rock and roll. And for a select and discerning demographic, there are no better purveyors of this message than these 6 fellas belting it out to the back of the zoom room in the digital fishbowl in which we now live( and two turtles in the Canadian outback get it on. ).. The hold steady suited up at the Brooklyn bowl and rolled a perfect game, heroes to many, for more than one day.

poodles

just read about the death of poodles, a burning bright light from my younger years. I do not know of the hows and whys, and at this point it I ssurely none of my business. The town crier, facebook being the conduit for the news, as ever. I have so much to say on the matter, and all I can really proffer is ‘shine on you crazy diamond’. She was someone I remembered seeing at the pink pony before I moved to new york and was blown away by the exene meets Lydia lunch looks. And those eyes, those eyes good stop traffic on the autobahn. You could get lost in those eyes for days or weeks or months or years. In my case, it was months. Sometime later , after I moved to Brooklyn, I would see her at Sweetwater, as she dated one of the bartenders there. She was hard not to look at across the room- the look , the eyes, the laugh, the id- and there was a lot to look at in that bar. Both of our relationships petered out, and we wound up sort of being set up and embarked a whirlwind fling a ling, that was lovely and frantic and all too brief. Two strongly suited people with darker proclivities don’t necessarily make for romantic longevity. This was the summer of 1998. She was a spirited soul, a verbal gymnast of Olympic caliber, a mental titan of inappropriate non sequiturs and deep intellectual acumen. I remember bringing her to a party that old friends were hosting, and she had charmed the room and stolen the show before we could put our bags down. I was smitten and it was obvious, it was hard not to be. I remember going to her place on Bedford avenue at the beginning and listening to classic rock, admiring her artwork and trying to peel back layers of the emotional onion. We peaked and volleyed quickly, I was off in august of that summer on tour for quite awhile, and was not able to maintain things beyond that. Presence was certainly not my strong suit in those days. I know not much beyond the fall of 1998, but I always enjoyed running into her on a night out. You knew if you did, that conversation would not be dull and an air of levity would be present after she left, with a crowd of strangers asking ‘who was that’? to which, you’d wistfully exclaim, ‘that was poodles, and she’s awesome”. I know of tragedy sometime later, with someone that I was friends with, and I knew that she had moved to Baltimore and then on to western massaschusetts. We chatted briefly on facebook, and I would invite her to shows if I were going to northhampton, never really hearing back. Life for many of those that burned brightest have since burned out. I hope that she is ok up there with heaps, and the clam and john berry(and so many others) dominating the pinball machine in the max fish of the sky, knock out beautiful and electric eyed, keeping the room light.

don/t let the door hit ya

can we get a what what for the who cares about the sign in the window that says ‘closed’. Another 6 month young institution gone down the shitter to the great dismay to 5 people on social media. One more blip in a trustafarian radar on the route to financial insecurity. “sorry, but after 6 months of purloined PPP loans, hyphenate’s beardo bistro and museum of bad decisions will be closing to take our talents to southhampton- our Edison bulbs and repurposed saw horses will be curbed tomorrow on the way out the door. We will miss the lengthy relationship that we have fostered with our regulars since moving to the neighborhood 9 months ago. Yrs truly, hyphenate-trustafari. P.s., our gofightme page is live if you want to pay to destroy the inside of the establishment after we/ve taken our valuables out. Who cares if there is anything left, the landlord only gave us 9 free months rent’