There are nights when the surreal becomes real just because everyone is walking one step to the right of their regular walk. The askew nature of being a bit off balance--that not everything is working correctly, but it's working--makes everything okay. It's all good--as way too many people say way too much these days.

It was in this state of mind that I ventured into the Spring Crawl (all downtown bars accessible for a low low (heh) $10 if you can stand in line long enough to get in). I was mellow, kind of flowing down the street with a couple of friends and thousands of others. Police officers and off duty fire fighters roamed around with appropriately identified clothing and talked about "people watching." The rest of us did our version of the cool dance and tried to look like the shit as we checked out everyone else doing the same thing and trying not to acknowledge the existence of everyone else--unless that everyone else had a reason to twirl around and say, "Damn!"

Friends and acquaintances flow by in much the same way. We shake hands, give hugs, tip beers and move on. Agendas are mostly limited to which band to see and if there is a way to circumnavigate the long line outside of the bar.

The ubiquitous blond with a blue sweater giving off penetrating looks for a second before the look changes to nothing at all. She was at every bar: different jeans, different hair length, same attitude. I'm thinking I should call her a Cindy, just to have a name--a label. Everyone deserves to be thought of as a stereotype once in a while.

Give me a Mexican beer and a lime. Everything will work out fine.

Where is boy toy?
Not his scene tonight?
Where is girlie girl?
Somewhere, she wanted to see Superfantasticguitarrockband.
Standing in line, probably.
Never get in there.
Your band sounded great onstage tonight.
Is she 18?
He left me.
She's "searching" for herself.
I'm tired.
Why do I always see you when I'm out with her?

Girls are guarding the entrance to the booth toilet in the guy's bathroom because the line to the girl's bathroom is too long. So two girls look on as us guys line up over the trough and mumble about the equal rights amendment. I imagine this is the best show they get all night.

Choice is always easier for guys, I think. Get to the bar and get a beer. No thought about "mood." Too many times I've watched girls listen to the list of beers on tap, specialty tequilas, types of martinis and then say, "Coors Light please."

Maybe I look like a specialty tequila that might be a bit too much to deal with tonight.

After sprinkling over the punker girls with provocative piercings, Latino girls in hip huggers and scenesters with cell phones, the time comes to say goodbye and get out of the mess before the mass evacuation.

Our designated driver has only had one beer over almost four hours (success!). My money has been changed from crisp twenties and tens into a balled up mess of ones and fives. There have been no fights, no puking, no police take downs--not bad, I guess. If there had really been a reason for all of this, it might seem unusual. But nothing does because this is normal.

Coming down at a friend's house before making the final journey home, I watch and listen as incorrect change from a cigarette transaction is smoked up in small ten dollar rocks of crack. My buzz is turning into wear out. They tell me there is no use in smoking crack, but it tricks you into thinking there is. That the incredible high that seems to last (from my perception watching from a corner in the room) about two minutes, but it seems to say "If you do it again it'll be better and longer and more productive, so just do it again." And so they do it again. Pipes made out of car radio antennas, fingers black with resin and lighter burns.

I realize that the night keeps moving and if I don't move along with it, I'm never getting home. I leave the friends to discuss the state of the world as they see it.

And a scant eight hours or so later I'm wondering why we called these columns "Shut Up, I'm Talking" when "Sunday Morning Hangover" seems much more appropriate. Not that I'm hungover, but that the come down and distillation of the week or weekend's events always seems like a purging. A giant psychological ball of energy distilled and thrown into the ether with the hope that someone, somewhere out there listens and learns something.

And it makes all of this seem normal and completely appropriate.

Matt Worley is the guy with no tattoos, piercings, markings, jewelry or name brand clothing wearing a t-shirt advertising a slogan or product that doesn't seem connected to anything real at all. He did smile when you looked his way, didn't he?