This is the music venue I payed $5 to get in, get sweaty, and be a self-conscious teenager. I remember pulling my drenched Dead Milkmen t-shirt off my skin as I sat on the curb. I remember sweating like hell when Dick from Citizen Fish moaned in a smoky red light "Phoenix... nothing more than... Phoenix," (crowd protests). I remember staring at the rubber arms of Tre Cool, drummer for Green Day as I tried to dodge the sputtering stream of Billy Joe's saliva. I often sat on the stage near the speaker because a) I was too short to see from anywhere else b) punkers like to squish short people and c) I'd been ditched by my moshing boyfriend.
I went to all of their closing shows.
RIP Silver Dollar. You could not be replaced.
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