This is a photo of me in the bathroom at this bar called The Tube.

Here is what is important: this place makes no sense.

It's reasonable to assume the name comes from shape of the walls (not shown). They curve up to a low ceiling in a way that, strangely, is not at all claustrophobic. The bathroom, though impossibly cool, looked nothing like the main room. The bar itself is lined with some really cool art, I think the ceiling is this plastic looking bright teal. There were large metallic paintings of rabbits with glowing red eyes on the walls.

On Saturdays the DJ plays the funkiest of the funk from the 70's and the people juke and jive like heaven is in movement. Behind the bar there are a number of LCD screens playing a movie that is, of course, impossible to hear. The night I was there they were playing The Motorcycle Diaries.

Two black men in their 50's dressed in vintage 70's pimp style got down like you can't believe. To the hand clap sizzle of hipsters and preppies, the indie kids and the floozies, like cocoa grounds and strawberries, juke'd and jived, rolled and shuffled. The DJ, himself seasoned, sautéed the dance floor until the heat was too much to bear. Thats when I went to the bathroom and took this photo.

Thats right. I'm urinating.

I distinctly recall a point in our time there in which I was unable to stop grinning. It was too loud to think, too colorful to look away, too real to seem earthly.