Long have you waited to put a face to this name. Hello. My name is Thomas Garbo, and I own The P*lace.

I don’t make a habit of visiting very often. Some of you probably didn’t even know that I existed. Whenever someone tells the story of The Palace, my name usually doesn’t come up. No, that wasn't a mistake. You do know about The Palace, right? Of course you do. Thanks to Kids Incorporated, there's not a kid in town who hasn't heard the story. I've heard that story many times, as well.

I don't go back nearly as far as The Palace, but I've been around for a while.

My parents grew up here, and they were daily patrons just as you are now. I have heard so many stories about what it was like when the neighborhood was fresh and new and lively. Not a week went by that someone wasn't making the Society column of the newspaper. Vaudeville, rockabilly, Motown...if it was trendy, it came to The Palace. While other little boys were begging for bedtime stories about superheroes and great adventure, I was lulled to sleep by the sounds of showbiz.

By the time I was born, The Palace was already nearing the end of its life. I remember being so excited to finally get to walk through those doors when I was old enough for a show. I never saw the peeling paint and cracked vinyl seat cushions my parents cried over. What I saw was a true palace.

Modernization has not been kind to this place. As the rest of the cities grew, it became unnecessary for people to come to The Palace to see the world. The world started to come to them. I guess it was this fact that convinced the owner to let a gangly, unpopular kid sweep the floors for 50 cents an hour. That's right - I worked here! I would have done it for free if they'd wanted me to. Just being inside was enough. You look at this place now, and you wonder why Riley always has a smile on his face. He knows.

But kids grow up, and even my days at The Palace were numbered. My parents didn't want me to see the place that served us our dreams in its crumbling state. Don't get trapped in your memories, they'd always say. So I left The Palace. I spent many years as far away as possible in college and in the Navy.

I was out to sea when a newspaper from home took me back to that spellbound little boy. The Palace was defeated. After a string of unsuccessful owners, it was being put on the auction block, with the highest bidder having the option to tear the entire building down. I remember scrambling to a telephone as soon as we reached port, attempting to transfer all of my savings to my father and impressing upon him that the fate of the free world rested in his love for his son and the building that brought them together. Camped out in some nondescript Italian city, my V-Day came by phone. The Palace was mine.

But I had no loyal subjects. The building was in such a state of disrepair that it was nearly condemned. Rats and spiders were the only ones getting any refreshment here, the stage door was blocked with junk and rubble, and the only lights in the entire building that worked were, oddly enough, the jukebox and the marquee. Well, most of it, anyway. I was now the proud but overwhelmed owner of The P lace.

Naturally, everyone thought I was crazy. It's very difficult to go into business for yourself, as I found out when I attempted to recruit friends to help me clean up the mess I'd bought. Try as I might, I could not find anyone who could see through my eyes. The P*lace was a dump. Its days in the sun were long gone, and there was no use in today's world for a malt shop.

I refused to give up. It took me fifteen days of backbreaking labor, but I got all the garbage cleaned out of The P*lace and cleaned it from top to bottom. I didn't have the money to hire contractors, so I was really taking a chance. I fully intended to replace the "A", you know. But the more I looked at it, the more I became convinced that maybe I didn't need to. People were finished with The Palace. Out of its ashes would rise The P*lace.

I'll admit, I hadn't considered the fact that kids would like it here. My original intention was to market the club to adults. I also hadn't considered the fact that we're living in a completely different age. Leisure time doesn't seem to exist anymore. I decided instead to open The P*lace to families, and the kids discovered it first.

The luckiest break I've ever had came when I decided to hire Riley. Something about him just reminded me of that gangly youth with a burning desire to work here. What can I say - the man has a killer work ethic. I needed someone I could trust with the day-to-day operations, but also someone with enough enthusiasm to take a chance on some other man's dream. It's been five years, and he still comes to work with a smile on his face.
I know that many of you feel that I've been unnecessarily hard on Riley. But I'm very proud of him.

I'm very proud of Kids Incorporated, too. They've surpassed all of my expectations. The Palace had never had its own house band; most popular artists would just pass through. I'm convinced that The P*lace would not still be here without them. Despite all of my efforts, the upkeep was becoming too much for myself and Riley to manage, and the city made the decision to condemn the property. Nothing I said was going to convince them otherwise.

Those kids took it upon themselves to go to court and persuade the city to declare The P*lace a national landmark. How they did it, I'll never know. All I know is that the city will now fund any repairs I need to make - except the "A". It's amazing how everyone fights to keep that one letter in the dark. None of them remember The Palace, but they love The P*lace. With Riley and Kids Incorporated, I've accomplished my dream.