[October 8, 2016]
When I was 13 years old, I somehow convinced my mother that going to teen night at “The Warehouse” in Detroit was an okay thing to do. I guess because I was a good student, involved in theater, and wore braces, there wasn’t much to worry about.
She told me clearly to watch my cup (read: water) at the bar and make sure no one put anything in it.
I was on the dance floor having a good time and dancing with friends. When a guy started dancing with me, I was probably as giddy as any new high school kid would be and got into the “Ghetto Tech” jams of Detroit yore.