This is tire beach. Oh, there's a lot of names for it, but believe me, I think we should go with "tire beach".

It is a subtle clue about how I'm feeling today.

Black Dice is playing down at a salsa bar next to Doc's Clock. Wonder how they managed that? I went by the door and the promoter guy was sweating from his neck even before they'd let anybody in. I guess this is why I live in America.

I was standing on the corner and some skaters came up to a scruffy looking youth and started talking to him and looking around. I had just removed 300 dollars from the Wells Fargo and I said, "You lookin for the punk show?" and they said, "Yeah" and I said, "Uh huh. Me too." (That was when I only knew it was at 22nd and Mission.) The pasty faced singer/terrorist from Black Dice came out the door of the club and that's how I knew where it was. When you see this guy you want to look at every inch of his body. Every article of clothing, every exposed area of flesh. He's immensely interesting only because he destroys bars and intimidates people for a living. He's a waif-like 5'3" and greasy hair hangs out of his baseball cap. You know, in that greasy hipster boy way where the ears stick out and the hair parts to the front and back. He's a sweaterboy, as my friend Aviva would say. He even has that shy demeanor, that, "I suck so bad" slump. All of these appearances are called into question when he wraps the mike cord around his fist and jumps on a table and kicks an indierock girl in the shoulder. I honestly don't know who that guy is. Don't ask me. I'm just a gawker.