After midnight, a small crowd gathers in a temp space on N. 8th to hear some scruffy band from Arlington, VA, play mediocre garage rock. Mixed among the usual contingent of hipster locals are some conspicuously well-dressed folks who look like they lost their way en route to the Collector's Lounge. Wonder if they even realize they're in a room half-filled with unemployed citizens. Or care.
(P.S. To the asshole who stepped on my toe: what the hell are you wearing? Stilettos?)