By Jacob Katel
By Laurie Charles
By Nate "Igor" Smith
By Abel Folgar
By Kat Bein
By Jacob Katel
But I love Churchill's, seriously I do. It has character, real character, not the kind you can buy at Hot Topic. The parking lot is decorated with a decrepit double-decker bus and crusty punks who dont want to pay a $10 cover charge (but will gladly spend it on drugs). Inside the cigarette smoke burns your eyes and permeates your clothes. Punk and death metal music vibrates violently off the walls, causing a seizurelike grinding frenzy among patrons. For those who need an escape from the musty atmosphere and flying fists, a breath of fresh air can be found at the in-house music store, Sweat Records.
On a recent Saturday night patrons were in their regular rowdy form for Cinco de Mayo. Grindcore bands like Mekago NT and Maruta filled the air with testosterone while fans swung their limgs with brutal glee. As entertaining as the sigh was, I was beginning to suffocate from the smell of sweat and made my way outside to see what characters were lurking about.
A man who claimed he was the afterhours DJ for club Space approached me and placed a folded piece of paper in my hand. It supposedly had pure MDMA in it, and he said it was all mine if I contributed to his taxi fund. When I politely declined, he quickly snatched it back and wobbled off into the dark.
Near the back entrance of Churchill's the resident deaf lady was up to her usual panhandling ways, passing out pieces of paper with requests for money typed on them. Sorry, I dont know how to read, said one guy. She placed another cigarette in her toothless mouth and shrugged.