It’s not the same. Not at all. There’s a kitchen and there’s a couch but nothing else is even similar. The speakeasy-style setup hearkens back to a world where The Man cares what those kids are up to. Shotguns are good protection in almost any context, especially tower defense.  Sandwiched amid dive bars underneath the I-5 overpass, I can’t think of a more appropriate reincarnation of the Black Lodge I once loved.  The stage we all wanted in that little house exists in punk rock glory on Eastlake Ave.

I’m not sure who runs the place and that alone is comforting. I’d hate to discover the same megalomania that runs rampant in my hometown. This isn’t a small pond and pulling off something with this level of reputation doesn’t come easy. A mafia-like structure of hipster punks means I’ll never reach the inner clique by trying.  That spells freedom. Climbing is more fun when getting high isn’t the issue anymore.  I just get to watch the shenanigans and let my freak flag fly.

I can take pictures and I can report events. I can’t give you the experience I’m having. It doesn’t exist anymore. I’m a dying breed. Nestled and nurtured, I’ll die with my principles at the very least.   No interest in keeping up with the trends becoming a fixture is a different challenge.  I could spend the rest of my life unnoticed, sitting at the center watching wheels spin until I die.  Knowing I’m here is enough.  I’ll go with a smile, detached from the results of my tenure.