Some cop broke up the music I was listening in on. I'm not sure what his problem was. There's a group over there playing gourds affixed to wooden bows strung with the ghosts of forlorn cats. A bunch of folks on the other side of the park are banging gleefully on bongos and other assorted drums associated with heavy marijuana use. There's even a fellow hammering away with drumsticks on an old plastic bucket late for a date with destiny and a dumpster. That's all well and good, but when you get a few kids with laptops and a PA all of a sudden there's a problem.
Reluctantly, I pull myself away from the park with its killjoys, sunshine, and pretty young women walking happy little dogs. They've got it good and make no bones about it. I've traded it all in for the unpleasant smells and sickly greenish-yellow lights of a PATCO train set to whisk me off into a night of pizza and programming. Fortunately, I like pizza and programming well enough. The park is better though—by far.