"I read your stuff when I'm using the bathroom," Bobby Sellarole told me. "You look taller in print."
At that moment I knew the fame-bus had arrived to pick me up. My writing had risen from crude jokes written on stall walls to genuine bathroom literature. Next thing you know kidnappers will be clipping my articles to compose ransom notes.
Ego aside, I had a job to do at Skipper's Smokehouse, which in my estimation was to document the action and meet a few women.
"I can't believe you asked to take a picture of the only girl in here without a bra while she hula-hooped," Emma said, criticizing my journalistic ethic.
I wasn't the only one at Skipper's with an eye out for what I liked.
"The dirtier the better," Chrissy Auger said, explaining the appeal of Skipper's and the neo-hippies it attracts.
This isn't to say that Skipper's is exclusively a gypsy outpost. All kinds came out to hear Tim Reynolds & TR3. The dancing deck was flooded with people waggling around like octopuses on land — albeit stoned octopuses.
This article appears in Jan 30 – Feb 5, 2008.