We enjoyed the Young Lionsin all their macho feline flair, a fab four echoing much the same cadence of A Misummer Night's Dream. The presentation was more the one-act play than a series of individual poets reciting their work. Not one to fawn and flush over dead windbags or living bores, a trait which got me tossed from many a flat reading in Atlanta and many more to come, I was amply impressed with the Lions that night, but I was smitten with the hard-drinking friend and benefactor who had joined me for a guzzle and a few rhymes even more so. We made it back to Fairlington without much harm done to the budding menagerie where Gwen waited for us with sexual politics a game I was soon to recognize was as lightning for some people as it was absent in me in those strategically wonderbluss years before I broke once again the barrier. I might have invited Gwenyth to join us at the club as well, but I didn't have a work number for her since she was in a classroom and not an office environment, and besides, I was beginning to take a queer fancy to this blonde number, this TW bird with the sun-bronzed skin and sweet teetering Georgia accent. In fact, Sue was born and raised in the same Albany where I had spent most of my first year in gradeschool. I was to learn later, or have my memory refreshed, that her junior highschool and that elementary school shared the same playground. The rear yards of both McIntosh elementary and Mcintosh Middle School faced each other, the fronts of each school facing parallel streets. Betty Sue Hedrick was six years my senior, and so the joke was floated that as a first grader in recess I had often ogled this long-haired beauty queen from across the play yards swearing one day I would marry that girl. There is much amazing pulp truth in that propped-up fiction, but since it has nothing to do with DC Space, I must block the spackling urges to share that story until some other page, some other time, some other season makes more sense. . .

Space soon became the place to be or not to be, for me and for many of the ridiculous characters that make this city both great and small, exciting and braindead, ugly and beautiful, aging and eternally naive. The imagemap in the far left frame of your browser will one day I promise lead to the foraging of underground scenesters in every sift of its swarming and detailed glories, every misfitted and convoluted angle of deception, and every stifled pock-marked algebra of loose-lipped bargaining chips on the fly. It was no accident I earned my bars and stripes as a guerilla fotographer in those beer-dripped days as a front row space cadet, and of the lamented thousands I have stored in pretty boxes and fat laminated books, many of them, and many more even than that will make it into these webpages as long as I am still wearing my boots. While the "dc space" of the punk generation is now forever gone, the building itself after being gutted and Clara Barton's old war papers rediscovered in an old office on the top floor, is being renovated for glamour puss inside and refaced on the outside in the posh urban stylings of its surroundings as the Washington Art District has become a fostered reality in the years since the old bar & grill has faded into the memories of those who lived there whenever chance and ambition offered us her warm and liquified womb from which to scream. We created her, and we become who we are as a result of her unblessed mixings, offbeat meanderings, and moods of a million light years away. Long live the space is the rallying cry! One day, yes I swear, one day, many more of these filthy flinty stories shall be told. . .

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The Scenewash Project 20003
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