Wednesday: I'm Not From Here

Wednesday is another blues night at Bonjour. I don't need it. They said the legendary King Ramsay is going to play tonight, and although I collect and repeatedly listen to each and every single album he ever released each and every day, I am not interested. At all.

Why? Because tonight, Martha was going to the Dry Barn.

The Dry Barn. Despite its mundane name - though some hipsters think it's, well, hip - the Dry Barn is the most sophisticated night club around here. And by around I mean the outer ring of the city. They got pool (hot, cold, warm, jacuzzi, kids pool, slides and stuffs, billiard), they got made-out-of-bulletproof-glass, pyramid-like entrance (oh, yes, the club is under the ground), they got extraterrestrial lighting (and I really thing they traded it with an alien from outer space, no green lights beats the Dry Barn green), and so, they got their own the most expensive (yes, you heard it right) crowd.

Long story short, I went there too that night.

Okay, I didn't go there. I'm a pitiful piece of insignificant fragment of this city. Only in my most unreal fantasy I could get pass the bouncer.

That's what friends are for.

I happened to know a certain guy named Kevin, who happened to be the assistant of the architect of the Dry Barn. That night, we sat down on the bench at the park, talking about the Dry Barn, inside and out. Oh yes, that's why I could describe the luminous lights, despite the fact that I have never, and will never get inside. He showed me some pictures. See? That's what friends are for.

So, that's my side of the story. God knows what happened inside the Dry Barn that night. All I know is, as I now (Thursday noon already) am reading the morning newspaper, Martha burst into the Bonjour, ordered one cup of Espresso, no ring. God saves the queen.

P.S. I have to go chasing my wildest dream. Whoever you are, please give this journal to Vince.