Long ago, when I was in college, less humble — more of a dick — I partied a lot. I ended up getting in with the guys who set up the industrial room at a club in the early-to-mid 90s. This was a few years after the infamous club newsletter, and after I had moved back to SF.
A friend of mine gave this guy, newly immigrated from Florida, a sticker we used to print up before clubs to hand out. He gave it to him thinking we were friends. What he didn’t know was that a few weeks prior when he had seen us talking on the roof, we almost got into a fist fight. So, it is natural to assume from a distance that we were talking as friends. Words were exchanged, over a perceived insult, but we both remained calm, and Rose, a mutual friend who introduced us, felt bad that we didn’t hit it off.
Flash forward a month or so, after said sticker is given to the Floridian, his friend invites my best friend and I, (unbeknownst to him at the time) back to his buddy’s flat after the club. He thought the stickers were really cool. They simply said: “No, I’m Not in a Band.”
The backstory on that was we always got asked if we were in a band due to our presence and style of dress. We looked like musicians. While both of us could play, at least somewhat competently, neither of us were in a band.
So we show up, and when I walk in, it is like accidentally walking into a lion’s den. Luckily, they gave me a chance. It was a bit stand-offish at first. I ended up getting along with the Floridian and his friend, X. In fact, X became one of my best friends for a while. He, the Floridian and I became a sort of 3 Musketeers in the club scene. Where there was 1 of us, there were must likely the other 2 wandering around the club.
We set up the very industrial room of the club where I almost got into the fight with the Floridian, and we each took a Moniker: Chromer (X), Booster (Floridian) & Jammer (yours truly & archaic slang for “Fucker”). We had grand adventures, but the preceding was all a setup for the real story…