If you missed our last show at North Star Bar, you missed a good one. Shit got a little crazy. A few bands played before us including Penrose and A Million Years. They were incredible.

By the time we hit the stage it was already 1am. The crowd was good and drunk by then. Lots of hooting and hollering. Good energy in the room.

Halfway through the set, in the middle of one of our songs, the stage lights went black. We later found out that someone spilled a beer on the lighting board. They were OUT. No bringing them back. So we just kept playing. It was completely pitch black in there. The only lights were the sporadic flashes from cameras in the crowd. We played several more songs in complete darkness - including an encore.

Here's the song we were playing when the lights died - they go out at 4:00. Check it out.

If you're in Philly on Saturday July 10, you can check us out at North Star Bar. It's one of the best venues in Philadelphia and we're headlining! Get tickets here. Do it now! Well, you know, if you feel like it.

From: Jack Mule
Subject: rage much?
you ever find yourself raging when a car alarm wakes up your sleeping baby? I wish i had a brick handy to give that car alarm a real reason to go off.

P.S. GET OFF MY LAWN!

From: JJ
RE: rage much?
You know... around here, car alarms typically mean someone's car is getting fucked with. So when I hear one, instead of feeling annoyed I am like uber-pissed. Not at the car, but at the criminals rampaging in my 'hood.

Someone broke into our car a few weeks ago. I didn't hear the alarm, so I didn't have a chance to react. There was nothing in the car to steal. They simply ransacked through the glove box, etc. Fortunately I'm not dumb enough to leave an mp3 player, CDs, or anything else in there overnight. The repairs we're pretty easy, but I ended up having to shell out the $250 deductible.

Another car was broken into last week in the same spot. That was probably the 5th or 6th since we've lived here.

Rage? Sort of. Every time I hear an alarm, I step outside and look up and down the block hoping I'll catch someone in the act. Fuck em if they try to shoot at me or something. No one is that good of a shot in the dark from a distance.

If I did see them, I don't know what I'd do. There's no way I'd start chasing them. I'd at least hope to get a good mental picture. And maybe I'd start yelling whatever intimidating shit I could think of in the heat of the moment. "I swear to fucking god I will destroy you!" or some bullshit like that.

That's story #1. It illustrates the facts that Philadelphia is crime-ridden and I am a little reckless. Story #2 (haha I said 'number 2') corroborates those facts.

A couple weeks ago while I was at work, Lulu saw a suspicious dude parked on our street in a beat up late 90's Mustang. It's not particularly rare to see suspicious people on our street and Lulu probably would have ignored him, but she was ironing in the living room and could see this guy sitting in his car from our front window. The guy was a tall, lanky, ratty-haired white guy in a leather jacket. She could see him, but he didn't realize it.

Side note: If he were black, I may have left his race out of the story because it could be perceived as racist to include that seemingly irrelevant detail. But he was white. And that's atypical in this part of Philly. So in this case I think it's relevant. And it helps you form a better mental picture of the scenario.

Anyway, this dude was sitting in his car much longer than could be considered normal. He was either waiting for someone, or he was up to something. Then she saw him pull some sort of kit out of his pocket. Tiny supplies of some sort. Maybe some tin foil. Perhaps a small tube. And definitely a lighter.

The guy lit up whatever it was and inhaled. He started coughing immediately. And after a couple of hits, the coughing got so out of control that he puked a little on his shirt and jacket. The guy was bombed. The puke didn't bother him a bit. He relaxed in his car for a few minutes, then got up and wobbled down the block and into a house.

We live on a block of rowhomes in Center City Philly. We know our next door neighbors and the people across the street. Families. Good people. But we don't know everyone on the block. There are a few people who live on the block that I've never even spoken to. People I'm not really interested in talking to. He went into one of those houses.

That's when I got home from work. Lulu told me the whole story. I really didn't know how to react. On one hand - who gives a shit if a guy wants to get high in his own car? On the other hand - fuck him; that piece of shit degenerate doesn't belong anywhere near my family.

We decided to leave the guy a note. I really hoped he wouldn't see me. I wasn't looking for a confrontation. I just wanted him to get the message.

I wanted the message to be straightforward and easy to understand. I thought that if I used profanity, it would sound insincere. He had to know I was serious. And he had to feel shame. Also - like a note from a kidnapper, I wanted it to be unidentifiable to prevent him from knocking on our door wanting to retort. I grabbed an empty unmarked brown paper bag and wrote on it with a Sharpie in big capital letters. Then I left the note on his windshield under the driver's side wiper, face down like a parking ticket. Here's what I wrote:

YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE.
GO GET HIGH SOMEWHERE ELSE.
NEXT TIME I'M CALLING THE COPS.

I decided to go with 'cops' instead of 'police', hoping to retain a conversational tone. I kept it clean, while emphasizing a feeling that we live in a neighborhood where people know each other.

The guy came out a couple hours later, read the note, threw it on the ground, and drove off in a hurry. There's a pretty big chance he didn't give a shit. For all I know he thought "fuck you, unknown random stranger" and drove home to smoke some more of whatever it was.

But I hope that's not the case. I hope he felt like he intruded on a safe place with his bullshit. I hope he thought about it A LOT. For hours on end. While watching TV at home later that night. I hope he agonized over it. I hope he felt scrutinized and judged. I hope he felt weak.

There are plenty of scenarios that could fall into this gray area. Just think of some crazy shit - like a teenage serial killer who took your family hostage. You might be ethically justified in teaching him a lesson.

Hmmm... Is that even legal though? Let's say you see your daughter's 16-year-old asshole boyfriend punch her in the jaw like that dude who socked Snooki. Could you get arrested for punching him back? What if you catch a teenager trying to steal your wallet? Could you face jail time for giving him a black eye?

The thought came to me recently on the way home from work. Center City Philly. It's dark out and I'm walking through a sketchy part of town. I see a group of questionable teenagers roughhousing on in the street. I thought - what if these kids decide to start fucking with me? A lone white guy quietly walking through their neighborhood with no other adults in sight. Truth is, they'd destroy me in a fight. But I could probably manage to land a couple of jabs.

So in that scenario - what happens legally? A group of 15 and 16-year-old boys. A couple of them with black eyes, maybe even one with a broken nose. Then a 34-year-old yuppie beaten to a pulp. Would I face charges?

Okay, that's enough setup. Most of you probably agree there are instances where a kid might deserve an uppercut to the jaw. Now that I've roped you in - consider these situations:

• You're on the bus and you see a kid call an old lady a bitch.
• Two kids walk up to you yelling racial slurs then start pushing you, trying to start something.
• You walk outside late at night and catch a kid reaching the broken glass of your car's window, trying to steal your shit.
• You're walking on the sidewalk, when a car full of teenagers drive by slowly and throw a bag of shit at your face - then they are forced to stop half a block ahead because of traffic.

Punch or no punch? And what's the age limit? For any of the scenarios above? Maybe it's easy to say you'd knock out a 17-year-old thug. But what if he's 16, 15... 14?

It's true. There's definitely a higher ratio of people with tattoos in Philly than in other places I've been. I think it has something to do with this city's hipster population. Not only do you see a lot of tattoos here - you also see dudes wearing giant plastic retro sunglasses, skin-tight cutoff jean shorts, and old school Chuck Taylors. I'm not suggesting that everyone with tattoos is a hipster - I just think that the sheer number of hipsters alters the city's vibe. It makes tattoos seem normal, so people who move here from other areas feel comfortable getting that ink they always wanted.

I guess that creates an interesting mix of hipsters, yuppies trying to look tough, indie-yuppies, and neo-hippies - all sporting tattoos. It's the hipster influence! Now, I've already used the term "hipster" five times in this post. Okay, six counting this last one. So before I go further I should mention that hipsters hate being called hipsters. At least that's the case in Philly. It's one of the ways you can identify a true Philadelphia hipster. There are also a few generalizations that can help you know the difference. I mean - if you're into labeling people, you judgmental asshole. Here's a primer.

Always True

• Hipsters always wear at least one item of clothing or fashion accessory that yuppies would be embarrassed about
• Hipsters have friends
• Hipsters are into music
• Hipsters hate being called hipsters

Generalizations

• Hipsters drink cheap beer like PBR or Lion's Head
• Hipsters don't drive, they walk or bike
• Hipsters hate commercial radio, even the alternative rock stations
• Hipsters think you are not cool

I hope this doesn't make me seem anti-hipster. Or if it does - whatever. Hipsters won't take offense anyway because they are unwilling to define themselves as such.

Rules rules rules. Fuck rules. There was a huge line at the security check-in, where court officers were confiscating cell phones (you can get it back at the end of the day) and telling people to throw away their food and drinks. People were pissed. They were in sheer disbelief that a court officer would have the balls to tell them they can't bring a fountain Coke into the building. And how dare you take my cell phone!

These people, by the way, were mostly dressed in shorts, tshirts, jeans, even tank tops. Fucking slobs. Luckily for them, the court won't turn someone away for being dressed like an idiot. Being charged with contempt of court would be a huge pain in the ass. Because then you'd have to come back - only this time you wouldn't be in the jury box.

Once you get inside, there's a lot of waiting. Sitting around on hard wooden benches and chairs while counting the hours. Got jury duty anytime soon? Better bring a book. Or two.

And how do adults act when they are forced to wait around in silence? Like little fucking children, that's how. It's really not that hard to understand. You're in court. There are cases going on all around you. Life or death shit. And some of that shit is in the newspapers. So the next rule is: No fucking talking. The court officials can't have their jurors discussing any ongoing trials, and the easiest way to make that happen is to prevent them from talking. Well it sounds easy anyway.

You know what happens when you tell a 3 year old to sit still and keep quiet? They can't stand it. They giggle and jabber and fidget. Just like a Philadelphia juror. To me, sitting still for a day while reading a good book isn't that difficult. It's actually kind of nice to have a little peace and quiet - to get a break from my stressful workweek. To the average juror, it's torture.

Throughout the day, people were laughing and chatting, and eating and sleeping. Somehow, several people managed to sneak their cell phones into the building (shit - if they can sneak cell phones in, does that mean people could sneak weapons in too?). So cell phones were ringing every few minutes. And people snuck food in too. Some fat chick pulled a family size bag of chips out of her oversized purse and chowed the fuck down.

So after you've waited several hours, you enter the jury selection process. That's when they choose 14 people for a trial out of your group of 50 or so. During this process they ask a lot of questions. Things like - would you believe a police officer's testimony over that of anyone else just because of their profession? Can you understand that just because someone is in custody does not mean they are guilty - that they are innocent until proven guilty? Can you set aside your personal prejudices and give your opinion on this case simply based on the evidence presented?

Several people saw these questions as their opportunity to get out of serving.

Judge: "Would you believe the testimony of a police officer over someone else just because they are a police officer?"
Childish weasel of a juror: "Yep."
Judge: "What if I asked you to set aside the officer's profession and treat their testimony just like the testimony of anyone else. Could you follow that instruction?"
Childish weasel of a juror: "Nope."
Judge: "So you're telling me you always believe what an officer says simply because of their job?"
Childish weasel of a juror: "Yes."
*Judge winces, knowing that the juror is just trying to get out of serving.*

This happened a few times with various questions. One guy even claimed he would be unable to discuss the case with the other jurors during deliberations - because after that conversation he would be unable to form his own opinion. He'd be too influenced and intimidated by the other jurors.

You know what? How about you act like an adult and follow the judge's instructions? This is Philadelphia. Birthplace of the Declaration of Independence. Other countries don't give their citizens things like the right to a trial by a jury of your peers, the right to a speedy trial, or the right to decline to testify in court. This is the fucking judicial system. How about you quit making excuses, quit trying to sneak food and cell phones into the courthouse, and quit acting like a fidgety, giggling child.

Listen - jury duty sucks. It really really sucks. But let's all agree that we all share the same obligation to serve on a jury from time to time. Let's show up when summoned, wait quietly as we meet our responsibility, and act like adults for one simple fucking day.

I've got the Pahlaniuk book Rant to finish and I'm a couple issues behind with Sports Illustrated. I'm thinking tomorrow will be pretty laid back. If all goes well, I'll waste my day waiting and waiting - then I'll get to go home and be done with it. Worst case scenario, I'll get picked for some bullshit trial that lasts several days (or longer). I'll cross my fingers. Wish me luck.

I said "Where you headed?"

Dude laughed, thinking I was being sarcastic and said, "Yeah it's gonna be a good game tonight."

I don't follow baseball. I know the Phillies are the current champs and all, but the sport is just fucking boring. Apparently my neighbors had tickets and were headed to the ballpark. I guess it was obvious to everyone but me.

At least the guy thought I was trying to be funny and didn't openly mock me for being completely oblivious. Or maybe he thought I was being a moron and he decided to be nice about it.

I didn't understand a word he said because of my headphones. Too bad, because I bet it was hilarious. 17-year-old high school brats are so very clever. In retrospect I'm glad I didn't hear it. I don't need that added stress in my life - being completely aware that I was mocked by pimply faced nobodies. For all I know, they were shouting words of encouragement. Starting now, that's how I will choose to remember the event.

It reminded me of something that happened a few weeks ago. A coworker and I were leaving our suburban office building at the end of a long work day, walking toward our cars. We were in the middle of some inane bullshit conversation ("Great weather we're having." "Yep."), when we were interrupted by a couple of bratty skateboarders.

The boys were doing some unimpressive ollies in our office parking lot. They were kind of nerdy - probably 13 or 14-years-old. I'm sure my khakis and long-sleeve button-up camouflaged the fact that I used to look and act like them. At work, I'm just another cog in the machine. The coworker chatting with me is a bit younger than I am and he probably looked a bit cooler that day. I think he was wearing jeans and an un-tucked shirt.

The kids interrupted our conversation by shouting "Are you gangsters?!" Kids are fucking idiots. You can quote me on that. My coworker responded: "Excuse me?"

Why would anyone consider engaging asshole kids in conversation? They should be treated the way conservatives view the homeless - ignored and forgotten. The rest of this conversation took place as we continued walking toward our cars. The kids' voices got louder as we got further away so they could make sure we heard them.

Asshole kid: "Are you a gangster?!"
Coworker: "Yeah, sure."
Asshole kid (louder): "How are you a gangster?"
Coworker: "I'm not sure what you mean."
Asshole kid (now yelling because we're so far away): "What makes you a gangster?"
Coworker (mumbling as he gets into his car): "Okay this conversation is going nowhere."

As my coworker shut his car door, the one kid addressed the other kid, yelling: "That guy looks like Bam Margera!" "Hahahaha"

I don't know what made the whole interaction so funny to them. They just laughed and laughed as we each got in our cars and drove away. It's still somewhat unclear if they were mocking us or just being silly. Whatever.

One thing that crossed my mind in both of these events is this: If I were genuinely bothered during either of these encounters, I could have done something about it. I could have insulted them. I could have engaged them in conversation and said some truly hurtful things - the kinds of things that would make them lose sleep at night. But they're just kids.

Even a 17-year-old cruising through South Philly with a megaphone in hand is just a dumb fucking kid who knows jack shit about life. Kids say stupid shit. They make mistakes and look foolish. I was like them 15 years ago. And 15 years from now they'll interact with cocky little pieces of shit. It's the cycle of life. How could I let that bother me. It's just the way things are.

I put a pillow over my head to block the noise and tried to go back to sleep. Of course that failed. Feathers and cotton are no match for a South Philly drunk.

My wife and I live in a rowhome on a small residential street. From our second story window, we can see the entire block. It's great for those Rear Window moments where the neighbors are fighting and you're just waiting for them to literally kill one another. But I digress...

I crawled out of bed, headed over to the window, and looked down toward the street trying to identify the stumbling buffoon. There he was, right below my bedroom window sitting on the bumper of my neighbor's car. He was talking to the dog. I mean - he was yelling. But he wasn't yelling at the dog. It's more like he was yelling to the dog. It looked like a conversation. No anger in his voice at all. He was just loud and rambling.

The guy was in his 40's or 50's. A black dude talking to a pitbull without a leash. Even while sitting on the car bumper, his was doing the drunken head bobbing thing that people do when they've had way too many drinks. It's like when you're driving late at night and you're exhausted. Your head starts to dip as your eyelids slowly close. But before your neck bends to the point where your chin meets your chest you are suddenly startled awake by some internal safety system. He looked like that - as if he might fall down onto the pavement at any second - constantly catching himself in time.

A quick aside... As I mentioned, I have no idea what the guy was saying. He was yelling as loud as he possibly could - a string of jibberish. But was I the only one who couldn't understand? I'm a white guy, and in my neighborhood I'm definitely in the minority. There are a lot of times that I can't understand what my sober neighbors are saying. Even after living in downtown Tampa and center city Philly, surrounded by people of various races and backgrounds, the black urban dialect still escapes me. It's fast while mumbling, foreign sounding, and riddled with slang terms I don't recognize. So while I claim this dude was screaming jibberish, it's certainly possible that my neighbors understood every word of it.

After watching for a few minutes, I got sick of the 3am show. Dude was boring. The same shit over and over. I crawled back into bed and tried to get some sleep.

What am I, an idiot? It was completely impossible. I had already tried blocking out the noise with a pillow and failed. I should mention that my beautiful wife slept through the whole thing. I am a very light sleeper.

I thought of a handful of solutions. I could open the window and tell the guy to shut the fuck up. I could tell him to go away. I could lie and tell him my wife is trying to sleep. What good would that do? Guy was crazy drunk. And he didn't speak my same language. He was clearly American and I assume he was speaking English - just not in a way I understood. For all I know he was yelling in slang "I'M GONNA SHOOT THE FIRST WHITE PERSON I SEE!" or "IF ANYONE TELLS ME TO SHUT UP, I'LL THROW A ROCK THROUGH THEIR WINDOW!" I really couldn't be sure.

Then there were the passive solutions. I could go downstairs and start my day early. Send a few work related emails at 3:30am. My bosses would be happy knowing I put in a couple extra hours. Or maybe I'd put on some music or watch TV. That might drown out the noise and lull me to sleep.

As all of these ideas raced through my head, I just laid there staring at the ceiling. The clock kept ticking and I was still awake and doing nothing.

Then about an hour after it began, I heard my next door neighbor yelling at the dude. She's a strong and persuasive black woman. A woman who works with her hands, drives a pickup truck, and has biceps as big as my thighs. I didn't completely understand what she was yelling either, but I got the message. "Go away. Get away from my house. We don't want you here."

I raced to the window to watch the aftermath. I imagined maybe he'd get belligerent and start breaking things. Maybe she'd have to rush outside and beat him down.

When I got to the window he was still sitting on the bumper. The yelling from both sides had stopped. Dude was silent, staring down at the pavement. His head was in his hands. His elbows rested on his knees. His knees spread wide. As if he was making sure he had enough room between his feet for... Yeah... Vomit.

Dude spewed what appeared to be shredded chicken in a brown sauce. Maybe chicken wings. Maybe chicken stew. Quart after quart. Maybe a gallon or more.

And yeah - you might have seen this coming.... The fucking dog started licking it up. Regurgitated chicken wings are pure ambrosia to a pitbull. Slurp slurp slurp. It was hard to tell from a distance, but I think the dog was smiling.

That was enough to ruin my night. The drama was over and I had these horrible images in my brain. I tried to go back to sleep now that the noise was gone. No luck. I was too freaked out. And I had to get up for work in an hour. Fucking South Philly drunk.