Forget Magazine. Remember, Remember, Remember.

I watched the Toronto supposedly not fit for inhaling, for the first time in a place called Lee's Palace (where my friend Samantha couldn't see Nirvana when she was eighteen and you had to be nineteen because when you are eighteen and brown in Oshawa it is not easy to get a fake ID). I was underground listening to a kind of music that past me by the first time. I was wearing a cowboy shirt. Gas was 49 cents a litre. People were rubbing up against each other; there was breathing and singing. There was a guy on the speaker who danced the entire night and knew the words to every song, or at least looked like he did. No one looked sick. If anything, people looked serene. There was breathing and dancing brown and white people, some old enough, some not, and a lot of electricity and I, for one, wasn't scared at all—KJB.