The Subtle Dance Of Socializing

There was, not so long ago, yet another birthday party in my circle of friends, well-wishers and hangers-on. I'm beginning to think that some of them are fabricated to provide an excuse for doing the kinds of things that would otherwise be frowned upon in any other context. That aside, it was another in the ever-lengthening string of nights out on my part that warrant a full accounting here. Names have been omitted to protect the guilty and spare the innocent any guilt by association. As is so often the case, this story shall stretch on for three days, so don't miss a single thrilling chapter!

Today I ought to tell of the commute, as I usually do right away. Now, I had dedicated the entire afternoon to watching dvds I had checked out of the library. I went and returned them, coming back maybe an hour or so before I needed to head out for the party. The first bus was uneventful as far as I can recall. The train started out that way. I opted to stop at a kiosk to buy my next month's pass, then went down to get on the train which others were frantically rushing towards as though a monster were menacing North Hollywood.

I was engrossed in my novel when the exceptionally loud strums of an electric guitar disrupted my focus while we rocketed through the tunnel beneath the streets of Hollywood. Playing said instrument I spied a known character of the subway, who is identified by his stringy, dyed hair. It had been green in the past, but was tonight blue. He is what I guess is called a busker: one who takes to the streets to play their music in the hopes that kind, appreciative souls will take pity and toss a couple bucks in their guitar case or hat. Some deserve that, as talented as they clearly are. I recall back in Chicago one man I saw on a subway platform while headed to the airport with a violin. He was quite good. This stringy-haired fellow was not.

People on a subway car are a captive audience with no recourse in the event of a transgression upon their privacy, and this guy takes full advantage. He introduces himself like he's playing a gig, makes it plain that he's looking for 'donations', then starts playing in spite of all requests expressed to the contrary. I couldn't imagine how he was managing to play electric, but I guess I don't know anything about amps and all that. I was glad to get off the train. I bought a spanish-language newspaper up above on the street, and caught the final bus of the itinerary in short order. It was a quick and forgettable hop. Good times and the fellowship of my friends awaited, and it all began to transpire once I thereafter set foot on the sidewalk. There I shall leave it for today. Check in tomorrow, when I shall speak of the party itself!