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In 1984, “The Prime Rib Palace” in Kirkland was a rocking club with an awful name and the strongest drinks east of Harry’s Bar and Grill on Mercer. Like Harry’s, their signature poison was the Electric Iced Tea, of which there was a steady stream of them passed up to the stage where those of us in the band happily slugged them down throughout the night.

By the third set, I couldn’t feel my fingers, and by the fourth set, I’m pretty sure we were operating solely on brain-stem motor functions.

Last call finally put a stop to this madness and friends helped us break down the mountain of gear and pile it into “Jason,” our 8-speed split-shift 36-foot converted 1968 Thompson school bus out back. Jason was tilting a bit to one side after getting loaded, but most of us were too. As people dispersed and started to catch rides with whomever could drive and I was overcome with the need to pop inside one last time and use the facilities.

The club was dimly lit and completely empty save for the rumble of an industrial size vacuum cleaner or floor buffer off in the distance that sounded like an ice rink Zamboni. I managed to make my way through the bathroom door and as it closed behind me, I was plunged into the most complete darkness that is usually seen just prior to childbirth. Couldn’t find the switches on the walls to save my life so I pressed forward and nearly broke my nose making contact with the stall door.

Navigating that obstacle, it wasn’t long before I cracked my shins on what must be the commode. Met my target in the inky darkness, and soon I turned my attention to getting out of there and catching a ride home.

Back through the stall, felt my way along the tile wall and found the door. Leaned my shoulder into it. Bam! It didn’t budge. HOLY SHIT! THEY LOCKED IT! I started pushing and pounding on the door. LET ME OUT! I’M LOCKED IN! After a night on stage, I sounded like a second-grade girl with laryngitis. I paused, and all I could hear was the ZamboniVac moving away from me to the nether reaches of the club like the doppler effect of a train disappearing into the night.

I slumped down in despair and let out an electric iced tea flavored burb that surely could have ignited the entire building had there been an open flame nearby. The horrible reality swept over me: I WAS GOING TO BE IN HERE FOR 2 DAYS. The club is closed tomorrow. OMG! I stood up and started pushing and pounding on the door again, calling out in a blind panic. My terror was so violent, the door popped a little. Fumbling around, my hand hit the handle and then something deep in my slow-motion reptilian reflexes said, “Try pulling it.” DOH!