WE LEAVE PARTIES TO DRINK MORE.

I spat on the floor of an attempted dance club. I really had to, there was just too much moisture in my mouth and in combination with the bilious beer we were downing, it was inevitable. Right after this I guess Dave got the cue that the floor was fair terrain for bodily fluids of any kind. Up came a stream of think soup, it looked red, and down it streamed onto the floor. I moved my pristine white kicks in the nick of time. “ I barfed, lets go,” he said like whoa, nonchalant as fuck, all the while I’m in hysterics. We proceed to hightail it out of the Balmoral, turning west down East Hastings. That’s a geographical name drop. I’d elaborate on the night, the weather, but I don’t remember it all too well.

It was my turn to buy the pitcher, and with only a ten bill in wallet, I knew where to go. Funky’s is the place for 9 dollar pitchers. Bob #1 (his engraved nametag said so), the bartender at the Balmoral looked at our id and charged us 12 dollars, meaning, we were had. I feel much more comfortable at Funky’s. Oh gentrification, what a love/hate relationship you create with us, the slummers. After I had said how I felt safer, and more at home at Funky’s then other dives, Dave commented on the ridiculousness of comfort zones; how could one be relaxed at one dive, while at another, tight and vomiting? While at the second arms race, sorry, scene, I bumped into three people I know well. That, I suppose, gives credence to either the gentrification argument or the slumming argument. Or it could simply be that hoodlums like cheap beer.