The drawbacks of the Bay Area's ongoing cocaine revival are ever-multiplying. For me, an avowed nonsnorter, parties are now almost unattendably irritating. There's the impossibility of getting anyone to focus on what you're saying. The supreme unattractiveness of the sinus conditions that arise. The second-hand embarrassment of hearing pallid indie rockers unironically refer to their beloved intoxicant as "yayo". And no one wants to eat anything, ever. The worst part, though, is how crowded the parties are. No one goddamn leaves. This means the host apartment gets uncomfortably packed with all of these cokefaces, and everyone's squeezing by everyone else. I happen to have a big rack. When I squeeze past someone, it's not my hip or my shoulder or even my ass that gets smeared across people. It's the rack. And when you inadvertently drag your breasts along the torso of someone who's all cokey? They, uh, they don't think it's inadvertent. I assume you can infer the rest.