I've finally decided the very conclusive difference between regular folks at a party and the heartily intoxicated, in case you ever can't discern the yelling from the talking normally.
You will have to wait until the wee hours of the morning, when everybody has gone to sleep. The very sober will have left. Remaining will be the casual imbibers, and the ardent intoxicalia, sleeping in very telling positions. Based solely on their choice of slumber surface, you will be able to--basically--learn whether they're regular contributing members of society, or will at some point be spending some time in jail.
Those who have no problem drinking slowly and then going to sleep will often be sleeping on the following types of furniture:
carpeted areas of the floor
Those who cannot even begin to enjoy themselves until they've achieved some level of clinical brain damage, will for some reason dispense with the aforementioned traditional modes of sleeping, and, in a haze of decision making and raw humanity that cannot entirely be accounted for, they will opt for the following spots to sleep:
the tile around a fire place
on top of the dog
on a scattered box of Legos
in the garage, in between the rakes and the spot where the door swings open
outside on the hibachi grill cover
outside on their stolen Zamboni
By the way, I was sitting in church today with my mom, as I sometimes do, and I looked around and realized (a recurring epiphany to what I've known for a while and rediscovered a few weeks ago at the Philly Art museum) that Roman Catholic churches are bar none my favorite type of architecture. Maybe it's the Indiana Jones 3 fan in me, but I noticed when I went to Scotland a few years ago, and on various religious retreats a few years prior... And saw St. Paticks cathedral every year since I was 10... There's just something so fine about the buildings that are constructed for the greater glory of God that it almost brings a tear to the eyes (as most things do lately... in recent days I've become even more of a girl than ever for the moving arts). Even though the sanctity of this place has been fouled by the kind of living dead that fill up between those walls every christmas and easter... There's a certain reverence and hopeful exuberance that is drawn out by the tall arches and wooden layers which reach upwards to the sky as if hates (sp?) is reaching up to the gates of heaven to caress the pearliness with an un-natural, but misunderstood boner. Towering pane windows, each with a symmetry in form but not in depiction, as if to say, 'it's not an accident that almost all mankind have bodies that are almost identical medically, but completely individual in appearence... same shapes but different faces... and the children will resemble the parents, even if it's in different combinations... fathers' chin with momma's eyes... yet somehow their own... how is it all this information of ancient ancestry can be stored non-electronically in the most microscopic strand of deoxyribonucleic acid, a mere protien speck can translate generations of faces that are symmetrical in form, but not in depiction...'
I hate these walls... ...they speak to me.
Whenever I'm in Spencers, I stare at this poster for maybe hours on end. It's almost criminal to post it here where you won't really be able to appreciate any of the detail. But even though I'm largely drug-free for 23 years, this poster is basically is a visual representation of my view of the universe.
Genesis by John Stephens