I was fifteen, broke, and covered in glue from wheat-pasting flyers on telephone poles off Whittier Boulevard. I wasn’t supposed to be out that late. I definitely wasn’t supposed to be driving. And I damn sure wasn’t old enough to get into The Arena but that didn’t matter. Because Irene was already in the car with me.
Not literally — but through those bootleg mixtapes that passed hands like sacred relics at school, gas stations, and backyard parties. Hard House Diva. Global House Diva. Live at Arena. If you were part of that scene, you know what I’m talking about. Those CDs didn’t leave my deck. DJ…
