The 1/2 Lounge had no idea what hit them. What was before a mellow, pseudo-hip, semi-artsy, yuppified bar the size of my apartment lined with plush booths graced with smiling good looking twenty and thirty somethings and a glam compact bar tucked into the back corner suddenly became a sweaty, bouncy, noisy WRMC dance fest whose glam compact bar tucked into the back corner slung Bobby Teenager more drinks than he could shake a stick at.
Dakota was sweating so hard the fractal on his cast began to run.
Alex has no idea.
Thank you, Mr. Requina of Chazology, for humoring us and our antics by keeping the beats hard and dirty all night long. Mr. 1/2 Lounge, though we do not know how you actually felt about our virtual takeover of your Burlington establishment, we respectfully thank you. But now you're ours.
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