This is blue-collar work, laboring entertainers, singing and picking for a flat fee. Every Wednesday for a straight year crooked, Corey and I played at that bar off Venice Blvd. We’d park in the back by the reeking dumpster, prop open the heavy door and push away the dirty velvet curtain. It was an establishment of Old fashionment and unfastened neckties, a neighborhood hole and a destination joint. We overflowed the ashtray in between sets and Clementine was always there, bent and jabbering, “Hi boys, hi gentlemen, play dat one song for me please, you know you know which one I’m dreaming on! ”The Wednesday night bouncer was our biggest fan, he was from Wisconsin or something.“Whatcha havin’ boys?” The free whiskey was nice and it kinda held our hand through some of those lonely weeks where rout-i-n-e and same ol’ th-i-n-g put us in a headlock.  But right! we had a job and that paper President in our palms at midnight was worth it maybe.     -RW