I am not great at pinball, not at all. I’ve plateaued. My style is scrappy if you want to put it kindly, is sloppy if you want to put it honestly. My substitute for precision is a manic vigor. I slap and bat and wail when things go down the drain.
Meth heads are extremely good at pinball. It’s a goddamn thrill to watch a meth head make shot after shot after shot. If you live in San Francisco, head over to Brain Wash bright and early, like at seven-thirty in the morning, and watch them at work. You will never be as good as them unless you start snorting drugs. Flabbergasting shit, I swear it.
7:30 is kind of early to interact with some sporting tweakers in a done up laundromat—kind of early to interact with anyone, for that matter. But I guess that's what it takes to squander some quarters on a silver medal and hear “YEAH BITCH!” get tossed around.