I got out of there toot sweet. And yes, I had to take the 22 back to the 16th Street BART station. It was later in the evening, so the bus was mostly full of stinky weirdos and teenage goths out past their bedtimes. BART, on the other hand, had become host to East Bay drunkards heading home.

"Cue inner commentary," I told myself. Sure enough, two Bill and Ted wannabes got on BART, one of them with his dirt bike, and began talking very loudly about their invariably shitty band.

"You know how 'Phoenix' goes dun dun duuuun dunn dunnnnnn?" said the one guy, who was, I guess, talking about whatever bitchin' song they were working on. He made sure that everyone on the train could hear him sing the parts. Then his friend chimed in with his opinion of the dun duns, which was that they sounded too much like fuckin' Mastodon.

'Tis a sure sign of immaturity to think that everyone around you gives a shit about what you think. (This column, included.)

Oy, what a long day, I thought to myself, and now I have to deal with these two. I rolled my eyes up into my head as far as they would go and sunk down deeper into the seat. I hate you I hate you I hate you.

But of course, I secretly loved it.

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