I make the effort once in awhile to go out to places where, for example, a forty-something, bald, white German man in a Hawaiian shirt spins the hemisphere’s nastiest collection of African funk records and even the slimmest and prettiest girls in the crowd grip tall boys of Pabst. But it’s so complicated. I mean, last night I bought a slice of pizza from a very skinny, timid, long-haired boy wearing an Eazy-E RIP teeshirt. This was before the DJ. A boy wearing sleeves of tattoos and a flat-brimmed cap had a pair of flowers inked on his cheekbone where tears would be inked were he actually the hardened con that his attire suggested. My friend Oli told me of glimpsing one of these tight-black-sagged-jeans and black denim jacket wrapped kids trotting a downtown hill with three inch black pumps on. It’s not an unpleasant city out there, but somehow it makes me want to put on sweatpants and read poetry on the sofa with the drapes pulled.