This Corrosion | Medusa’s Good Friday 1988 | Mickey Remembers

Mickey Fingers
Apr 3
9 min read

Updated: Apr 15

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This Corrosion | Medusa’s Good Friday 1988 | Mickey Remembers

Velvet Umbrella Radio: After Hours

April 3 , 2026

with Mickey Fingers & DJ Celeste Violet

2–3am CST on WDRT 91.9FM | Listen Live »

By Mickey Fingers & Celeste Violet | DJ Tea

This Corrosion | Medusa’s Good Friday 1988 | Mickey Remembers

Velvet Umbrella Radio: After Hours

Part two of a two-part story that began with April Showers on Eclectic Wonderland.

This Corrosion moves into the after-hours version — the part of the night that didn’t make it into the daylight telling.

The Night at Medusa’s — Good Friday 1988

A Good Friday in 1988: Medusa’s, Chicago, a mixtape in motion, and the moment where everything lined up… and didn’t.

Some nights don’t resolve.

They just stay with you.

Same frequency. Different signal.

April Showers | Eclectic Wonderland

Part one of a two-part story unfolding this week on Velvet Umbrella Radio.

This set plays like a mixtape memory — built from post-punk covers, alternate versions, and the songs circling a Good Friday weekend in 1988: record stores, dance floors, late-night drives, and the moments that almost became something more.

These are the tracks that set the scene — the ones that lived on the tape, in the car, and somewhere just beneath the surface.

This is the part that didn’t make it into the daylight version.

This is what actually stayed.

[Click Art For Part One]

Part one was the tape.

Part two is what the tape was trying to say.

This Corrosion — Medusa’s Good Friday 1988 isn’t just a playlist.

It’s the version of the night that didn’t get cleaned up, summarized, or turned into something easier to tell.

It’s the video room at Medusa’s when the lights hit just right.

The sound hitting harder than it should.

The moment where something almost happens… and doesn’t.

It’s record bins at midnight.

Donut holes in the car.

A morning-after soundtrack that knows more than anyone is saying out loud.

And underneath all of it—

that strange, electric recognition

when you realize someone else hears the world the way you do.

Some nights don’t resolve.

They just… stay with you.

Mickey’s Corner: This Corrosion

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hsKDimJtXlk

Mickey’s Corner: This Corrosion

This playlist we call “This Corrosion,” and it just happens to fall on an anniversary. Let’s just say: it’s the night I never forgot.

April 1, 1988. Good Friday. A weekend slumber party at a record‑store friend’s new artsy pad. the plan was simple: dance, records, donuts, sleep when you can.

Celeste and I weren’t closing that night, so we met everyone there. I ended up doing her eyeliner and mascara in the back room before we left. She sat on the counter; I stood in front of her, trying to get her to stop blinking. At one point I lifted her chin and told her not to move. The look she gave me almost did me in - wide‑eyed, totally trusting, zero idea how dangerous that was. I told her, “that’s a dangerous look,” and she genuinely had no idea what I meant.

She had her overnight bag, blankets, pillow, sleeping bag in her car. Since she wasn’t driving and we both had to work the next day, we just loaded everything into my car. G. handed me her keys, I promised to drop everyone’s stuff at her place and meet them at Medusa’s. Celeste and I both had family Easter stuff all weekend; we weren’t sure how much of it we’d actually make. I told her I could always bring her gear back. Nobody wanted their car windows smashed in the city. She rode with the girls. I drove the cargo.

I will note, I was very aware that Celeste was now over 18. I also knew she had written a song that was about me. I’m not going into details here, but I felt the same way. I was also very protective of her. I knew I was going away to grad school, and she was talking about Australia, Columbia College for Music/Audio Arts or Communications, broadcasting… I had this feeling she might still be orbiting my world, but I also didn’t want to break anything.

The plan that night was simple: meet at Medusa’s, then The Alley, Pravda Records, maybe Metro/Smart Bar, then Punkin’ Donuts—the Dunkin’ on Belmont & Clark—for donut holes and bad coffee.

Celeste wandered into the upstairs video room just before “This Corrosion” started. I don’t even know what came over me. The song kicked in and I saw her face in that flickering light. It was like she’d stepped sideways into another world and somehow dragged me in there with her.

It was loud, obviously. Nightclub, giant chorus, everything shaking. But somehow I could hear her perfectly when she leaned over and started talking about the sound. She said, “Imagine this in a huge gothic cathedral, with speakers on a slight delay,” and then she’s off talking about spherical parabolas and sound and the Sydney Opera House. She was speaking my language. I almost leaned in to kiss her, right there, just out of the shock of it -like, not some wild passionate movie kiss, more of a “oh my god, you are my people, you actually get me” kind of kiss.

I caught myself. I didn’t want to spook her, and I knew if there was ever going to be a first kiss, it couldn’t be in a half‑dark video room with Andrew Eldritch shouting at us. So we just danced and had the best time, and I thought, maybe later. She was geeky, and she totally got me, and that was rare as hell. Everyone else saw me as someone I wasn’t - some version I was supposed to be. I definitely didn’t want to screw that up.

Later, everyone tracked us down and we all went to Pravda.

First, you have to understand Celeste: ridiculous, innocent, and somehow the most lovable creature in the room.

Static was her sworn enemy. Long‑ass hair, cardigans because she was always cold, and every bit of it picked up cling like it was a hobby. One day she’s helping a guy at the cassette wall, and I’m half‑pretending to alphabetize while keeping an eye on her. Another coworker leans over to me and goes, “That guy always has a chubby for her,” meaning Celeste.

What happened next was pure Celeste. She reaches up for a tape, lifts her arms, and realizes she has two HUGE static hairballs, one under each armpit. Just… dangling there. She tries to pull them off and drop them, but they keep flying back up and clinging to her. So she has to stick them down onto the carpet and literally step on them to keep them from reattaching. The guy silently grabs his own tape and walks to the counter like he’s seen too much.

I had to bolt to the back room so she wouldn’t see me laughing. I was crying. Stuff like that happened to her all the time. Or she’d say something with a totally filthy double meaning, have no idea, and then five minutes later realize it, turn bright red, and run.

So when we went to Pravda, I never knew what to expect; but I knew it would be good. Celeste spent a LOT of time digging through bins. It was serious work, like an anthropological dig. She had wishlists that could fill a legal‑size notepad, single‑sided, pressed hard like every letter was a spell. I know this because by that point, I’d seen the list: full legal pad, no mercy.

By that night, she was thrilled because she’d found a few things that weren’t even on her list. Things she didn’t know existed yet.

Mitchell Froome’s “Café Flesh.” I had no heart to tell her it was a porn soundtrack. She just knew he’d worked on the first Crowded House album, and that was enough. Then she pulled “Dominatrix Sleeps Tonight” by Dominatrix. She had no idea what a dominatrix was - her dance teacher was using it for choreography. Again, not my place to break that particular news.

The next album she grabbed was Phil Judd’s “Private Lives”. She was in full “Frenz of the Enz” mode, total Split Enz diehard, and she’d already made me a couple of Split Enz mixtapes with handmade covers. I have to admit, I became a fan because of her.

After Pravda, we hit The Alley. I’m pretty sure I made Celeste try on a leather jacket that was way too big and a little too rough for her, just to see it. Then we grabbed a box of donut holes from Punkin’ Donuts. It was Celeste’s first co‑ed sleepover. G’s car was already packed to the roof, so Celeste rode with me. We swung by the Belmont Rocks for a bit. It was colder, so we just sat in my car and listened to a mixtape with our donut holes before I dropped her back at the apartment and went out for pineapple juice for the coconut rum.

I went for pineapple juice because I hated the cheap beer everyone was drinking and didn’t really want her drinking it either. Celeste tried the rum and pineapple and actually liked it, but by the time I got back, somebody had already started handing her cheap beer.

By then it was officially Beer Number One. I got settled in just as we realized she hadn’t eaten anything other than the donut holes. Someone handed her what turned out to be her last beer. I’m still not sure if it was dosed, but she literally said, ‘I feel funky,’ and just fell over after that. I stayed next to her all night, super protective, making sure nobody messed with her. Next morning I drove Celeste to work for our shift; everybody else was wrecked except G, who’d already gone in to open. I’m pretty sure we stopped for breakfast while G grabbed more donuts for the hungover cool kids’ shift. G spent the whole morning running her Bryan Ferry soundtrack (Kiss and Tell, Slave to Love) like she was personally curating the ‘so… did you two…?’ playlist. After Easter, that Tuesday, we traded mixtapes from the weekend: I made Celeste one with [you can check it out here], and she handed me a tape that mashed up the porn soundtrack, Dominatrix, Phil Judd, and a few other things. I just laughed; it was ridiculously on the nose.

A year later, Celeste was living in Jacksonville, Florida with the abusive ex. Out of nowhere I got a card from her with a giant crushed Oreo and some Valentine’s candy taped inside. She wrote that they lived across the street from an X‑rated drive‑in, and the marquee said “Café Flesh.” She asked if I knew.

I honestly don’t remember if I wrote back admitting I’d known all along, but it became a running joke between us much, much later: of course that was the record she took with her into the disaster timeline.

I think that was the last time I heard from her for a long while. The asshole was jealous about her getting letters from guys and did his best to cut her off from all of us. From me.

So yeah - when “This Corrosion” comes on now, that’s what I see. Medusa’s video room. Her face in the flicker. The hairballs. The porn soundtrack she bought for the production credits. The card from Florida with the crushed Oreo, like a distress signal disguised as a joke.

And the part that still knocks me out in 2026 is: the signal got through anyway. The frequency found its way back. The girl from Medusa’s who talked about spherical parabolas over Sisters of Mercy is the same Celeste I’m making this mix for today. I remember that night like it was yesterday.