I know I'm an outsider, but I've been on here long enough to say this:
The 86 club has *failed*.



A related journal entry of mine from 1987:
1987-03-09 ▪ Memory ▪ Highway Men
Yvette and I had lived at our apartment together for a little over a month. We were playing gin on the carpet and listening to Yvette’s Gigantes Del Jazz tape, when we heard a knock on the door. It was dark outside. I opened the door, and the wind blew some rain into the light coming from our apartment. A thin man that looked kind like my uncle Steve, with a full mustache and a two-week old beard pleaded, “My car broke down, and I need to call a tow. Can I use your phone?”
I said, “Sure, and pointed him to the phone in the opposite corner of the apartment next to the kitchen.” Yvette stood near the kitchen table, next to the phone. Along the wall opposite of the front door was a homemade book case with twenty or so books. On the floor, against the wall perpendicular to the door, was Yvette’s Sears Sound System: an integrated amp, turntable and tape deck, with a small speaker on either side. That was all we had. We didn’t even have a couch, yet. That would come later, courtesy of Sammy. Spread across the carpet was our gin rummy game.
Yvette handed the man the handle of our phone, which was mounted on the wall. The man took the phone and held it against his chest as another man entered the apartment and closed the door. They looked around our apartment, and with a look of disgust they both left. They didn’t even try to call anybody (or pretend). They just gave the phone back to Yvette and left.





