by Dani Burlison
Lanky twenty-somethings sipping two buck PBRs inside their nicotine-soaked white gear adorned skinny jeans avoid attention contact while slouching over barstools. The area is a dense dark cloud of off-putting pheromones and distended egos. We grow increasingly restless. A friend excuses herself, stumbling outside having a shaggy-haired bass player in which he approaches, politely asking to stay down.
“My name is…” he mumbles, even though the indie rockband whines through the phase.
“I’m sure your title,” I say, inviting the interest. “Sit down.”
We discuss politics, hereditary engineering and needle change programs. He invites me personally to a screening that is private of factory agriculture documentary straight right straight back at their bay area college accommodation. (suite…)