Baltimore Club grandpappy Scottie B's coming back to town tomorrow. Last time he was here he played to a crowd young enough to have fathered, in that hole of a dreamscape otherwise known as Silent Barn, where sprawling, half-finished ambitious paint jobs met unspeakable floors and rugs that went squish. The toilets looked like they'd give you a disease just for breathing the same poo-particled air they live in, girls dressed unseasonably slutty, retarded drama screamed around the room like the ghost of a preteen sleepover in the projects, and it all felt about a twenty-fourth of a second away from a brawl yielding irreparable face damage or a fuckfest. Check out photos from that party by clicking down there, right after these next two sentences. Tomorrow at Market Hotel shouldn't be any different. Just squash down that guilt for severely sweating in the same room as a bunch of 16-year-olds and you'll be fine.
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