barely functional

Last night there were many obstacles to overcome before anything remotely resembling pleasure could be attained. This resulted in series of lesssons learned which I feel I must share with you. Please, do read on.

Number 1: The postal office is fucking busy at 11:10 pm on a Saturday. I'm not sure if all these people standing in front of me are all planning to go to a club immediately afterwards to get drunk and plastered, but if they are, they certainly don't mind waiting in line for another 45 minutes first.
I'm not.

Number 2: 30th street station does NOT sell tokens at 11:20 pm on Saturdays. I have no idea why. I would think this would be peak hours for vampires and methheads. They must be confused about the main clientèle of their transportation system.

Number 3: There are two brands of token booths: “Out of order” and “barely functional.” Both will slow your pace, but you must persevere. Flattening out your dollars bills will help the process go more smoothly. Cursing and death threats also work. Don't ask me why.

I'm providing this information as a public service in order to encourage efficiency in the bar and club industry, helping our economy stay strong, which means I'm a true patriot. Fuck bush.

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This is a picture of a guy lighting a joint in his hand underneath the sea level of the crowd.
Pretty sneaky.
Although I think taking a picture of this secretive ritual without the guy realizing is pretty sneaky too.

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Theres something to be said of the fact that when one person dances like shit, he looks like he's dancing like shit, but when 10 people are dancing like shit, they look like they're actually good. Check it out yourself next time you're in a club. Anyway, I realized that its not individual ability which makes dancing in a crowd look good, its the ability to coordinate your flailing, spastic movements with everyone else's.

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My poem to the bartender

Why do you ignore me?
Why can't we talk?
We'd be perfect together.
Me with my five dollar bill waving
desperately in your face.
you with your catatonic blank stare
and monotone voice uttering
“one second”
I crave your attention.
Because you're the only one
with beer.
But you don't need me:
Everyone has five dollars.