Here’s to stage dancing. To the uptown crowd dressed for trouble. And the downtown crowd dressed for more. Here’s to playing 3 Pulp songs in one night. To popped collars. And drinks you can afford. Here’s to making out in a cramped corridor by the bathrooms while Fischerspooner bangs away on the speakers. Or crouching against a brick wall, freezing, in the middle of February, so your friends can have a smoke.
Here’s to partying on the West Side. For once. Forever.
Here’s to the one standard most night spots fall short on—consistency.
Here’s to Don Hill, who knew how to take a party and give it a home. We’ll miss you.