I heard some trivia about the name "DNA Lounge" today. Susan talked to someone who was an adult in the early 80s, and he says that the DNA was originally some kind of spinoff of the Stud (the owners parted ways or something) and that, at the time, all the clubs were doing a lot of performance art, rather than music. The DNA's owner was sick of that, and wanted to open a real dance club, so DNA allegedly stands for "Dance Not Art." I wonder if that's really true...
Barry's friend Cory painted the offices ("let me know if you need anything painted: I love painting!"), and we sealed and bug-bombed the rooms. Barry was so excited about the prospect of bug-bombing those rooms that he told me "oh, and I bought bug bombs!" three times over the course of an hour.
I spent most of the day hauling garbage out of the back room. The amount of crap they chose to save is just amazing. "Hey, keep this half of a broken pool cue! We might need it some day!" When did the DNA last have a pool table? It must have been at least seven years. Broken lamps, a corroded coffee machine, boxes of rusty nails, random lengths of bent copper pipe, sweaters that have (shall we say) seen better days...
The decorating scheme in this place seems to have predominantly been, "hey, I found this in the back." Sometimes followed by, "hey, I know, let's ball up a string of christmas lights inside it."
At some point, they moved the upstairs back bar, leaving some shallow trenches in the floor where the walls of the bar used to connect. They hid these holes by putting a carpet over them, in case you were wondering why you seemed to be sinking through the carpet up there.
The best piece of floor work I saw, though, was the place in the coat-check room where they filled in a hole in the wood under the rug with a crumpled piece of corrugated cardboard. That was very classy. Thankfully, the floors do seem to be structurally sound, if grimy.
At around 8, Jeremy and Heather stopped by, and we went up the street to Wa-Ha-Ka for dinner. It was packed, and they lost my order. Though it was only 8, there was some drunk-ass idiot sitting next to me who tipped over towards the left every time he stood up. So he fell into me, and I glared at him and looked away, and then, like drunk-ass idiots often do, he felt the need to talk to me. He kept prattling on something about having done something for the Jerry Garcia Band, as if this would somehow excuse him for having lost control of his motor functions by 8pm. He wouldn't take the hint as I kept ignoring him, and was leaning on my table, so finally I said, "look, I don't know you, and I don't want to know you, so why don't you get off my table?" God, he was infuriating.
I went back to the club and continued cleaning. Then at around midnight, some guy rang the bell at the club, looking for Don (the former manager.) "Don's not here." This guy kept asking questions, asking me to open the door, and basically not doing what I wanted him most to do at the time, which was go away. It turns out that he was a promoter and wanted to know when we were re-opening, and I probably brushed him off more than I should have, but I was coated in filth and really not in the mood to talk to anyone, let alone schmooze.