Interzone

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Realising that forty bucks was the starting price for a drink conjured in me a blend of amusement and outrage, an ambience more impromptu back-room customs examination than party unfolded. No real drama, I wasn’t planning on staying long. A few beers was always going to be it. Ten-bucks a beer with a minimum of four-per-coupon confirmed it. Plus I’d given up the exploitational, rampant rip-off, class-A scene, years ago.

This was a purely observational gig, I was interested in the reaction of people who planned on staying all day and into the night, possibly blowing four or five hundred in some kind of horrendous anti-new year’s resolution mind-wipe. There was a sign. It said: “Any unused drink coupon can be redeemed at closing time. This will be strictly for one hour”. This was thievery writ large and spelled out on the wall. Amazing. No one gave a shit. As one guy said to me, spitting cotton and wild eyed, “this is a business, see, what do you expect?” It was like I’d woken up at a train station with a mouldy hangover and my wallet gone.