Longtime clubgoers talk of selling records and CDs from their personal collections to pay a band's bus fare home. Or auctioning off some of the bowling balls in the corner. Which is how we made a lot of connections with people. They had a lot of good memories about the place. We'd stay up and talk, get up in the morning, go have breakfast, make lunch, take 'em around Cleveland.
People remember that stuff.
It's refreshing, you know. At the club's hygienic low point, about 6 people and 16 pets were cohabiting there. There was junk everywhere, and there were weird people. Train hoppers and cross-country bicyclists sometimes crashed for a few nights, brunching on chili dogs at Steve's Lunch across the street. After a couple of years, Petrovich moved out.