i got all decked out for the ponk show (translation: miracleman t-shirt, logo often mistaken alternately for "modest mouse" or "mighty mouse."� and skipping the shower and shave of course) and busted over to slim's at about 10:20pm, thinking i could skip the opening acts and just see the almighty AAAAAAAAHUJHWOUVYORVEYOF#YN*O#R&*@#H SKHWEAAAAAAAGGGGGHHH!!!!!!� *pummel pummel pummel* locust.� but apparently these bands were all so hardcore that the show was finished within about 2 hours.� oh well, oh hell, c'est la plague.� naturally that meant it was time to drive out to clement street for a little oriental sightseeing and then make a phone call to sarah, swing by the hard rock to pick her up from wrrrk, and get us trrrrrrrrrrrrrraaaaaasssssttt.� she says "hey what's up with you wearing a brand new pair of shoes every day of the week?"� gee, i surely don't know... maybe i won't present you with the gift i shopped so hard for: flask-sized bottle of skyy.� so, there we go, driving drunk, blasting haircut 100, popping in and out of this bar and that bar in the mission district.� we run into people, including mayfly's ex-boyf.� we meet speckman and end up holding onto him.� he offers to show us his pad that we've never been to.� oh, this blue bottle is empty, i think it's a brilliant idea to throw it out the car window and hear the lovely dulcet tinkles of shattering glass on mexican pavement.� sarah expresses disapproval, but deep down she digs the execution, if not the concept.

on speckman's roof we take in a beautiful view of the city.� he brings up names like voltaire, terry southern and oscar wilde. "touring 1800s america and reading to frickin' COWBOYZ??� how much BALLZ does it take to do that?� how hardcore was THAT dandy??" we drag him to sparky's with us, even though he's already sent subtle indications that he thinks she's crazy and i'm mean-spirited.� sarah drives my car, and after parking she drunkenly tumbles in the street and jacks a finger up & takes a few scrapes on her knees.� completely biting my pacific ocean rhymes.� things still don't seem to gel at the diner, and once the fries and ranch dressing start flying back and forth across the table, speckman's putting his jacket on and preparing to run from our savage little world of food-fights and pissing in public.� we drop him off at home, scratch our heads and wonder why we were trying to hang out with him, and the evening ends on familiar notes.� sarah also claims that i addressed him as "weasel" too many times.

in case you thought this entry was sorely lacking in gore, let's go ahead and discuss the previously unmentioned aftermath of the sample sale of a few nights before.� although several of us stayed up and went for burgers, and several more passed out early in the house... many people went to another party, down the street, after the sale.� outside of this party, some friends and acquaintances of ours were involved in a gruesome car accident.� a taxi cab crashed into our friends' car, then ran into an electrical pole, knocked the pole down and caused a local blackout.� then the taxi promptly burst into flames.� none of our loved ones were hurt, but the taxi driver shuffled off this mortal coil in crispy burnt fashion.� we later found out that the taxi driver was actually dead before the crash, and had rolled down the street after having his skull ventilated by a stray mission district gunshot.� what are the odds?� i don't know.� she seemed uncomfortable about us walking around in a 'hood where something like that had so recently happened.� "dude.� don't worry.� we're tough."� she retorted: "i bet that cab driver thought he was tough, too."

i snickered.