Brooklyn. Site of my second arrest and Midwestern refugees pretending they didn’t grow up across the street from cornfields. Hopefully an evening of electronic thumpings wouldn’t involve either. Trains after marching through lower Manhattan with the men and 
women who keep them running. Wrist band accessorized, the large dark skinned bouncer asked me about a man named Crazy Matt.
Two rooms and an L-shaped hallway make up the space. Initial chamber sealed, attendants were shepherded toward the back bar and speakers trilling through the glitchy offerings of Outlet.
Lines. Always lines. Around the block. Around the building. Down the street. If guitars aren’t involved the security groping is twice as violating for some reason. Tonight’s shape was an elongated L around a trailer parked in front of the Washington Avenue Armory. Thumping beats permeated the century old walls, military construction now housing entertainment the establishment doesn’t approve of.
the addition of a film festival to its slate over a decade ago brought wider relevance.
Drilling continues unabated across the Pennsylvania landscape