There's a bike lane on the right side of the street, but I needed to make a left on Broad. So I waited for my opportunity, then merged over in between a couple cars to the left turn lane.

Now I'm on the left side of the one-way street, riding next to the driver's side of traffic. As I was nearing Broad in the turn lane, I was riding next to a grey Range Rover. Big vehicle. It's the kind of SUV they drove on the OC, except Seth Cohen would have driven less aggressively.

Preparing to make the left, the driver started easing over more and more to the left side of the street. I was getting crowded in between the car and the curb. The driver probably didn't notice me.

I panicked a little, afraid I was going to be run off the road, so I squeezed my brakes hoping to come to a complete stop. Instead, my front wheel turned a bit toward the curb and I lost control. I flipped over my handlebars going forward and landed on my knees and hands in the street between the curb and the car. My bike landed upside down on my back then flopped onto the street in front of me. I felt like an asshole. Bruised and embarrassed.

The Range Rover slammed on it's brakes. I slowly got up and picked up my bike. I could see that a young blond woman was driving. A guy got out of the passenger seat and ran over toward me. I assumed he was going to make sure I was okay and to help me get out of the street and onto the sidewalk. Instead, he raced over to the driver's side of the car and started looking for damage. The driver rolled down her window.

Guy: "You dented my car!"
Me: "What?"
Guy: "You dented my car, man! Right there! Take off those sunglasses and you'll be able to see it."
Me: "You've got to be kidding me."
Lady: (to me) "Are you okay?" (to the guy) "Get back in the car."
Guy: "You got bike insurance?" (He said this with a snide tone. I think it was supposed to be funny and insulting.)
Me: "I don't know what you mean by that."

The driver seemed to be the guy's wife. She immediately tried to diffuse the situation. I got the impression she wanted her husband to get back in the car so they could drive off and get their weekend started. I picked up my bike and laid it down on the sidewalk.

Guy: "He dented our car!"
Lady: "Are you sure?"
Me: "Listen, I was just trying to stop and get out of your way."

There was definitely a little ding on the driver door. There was no way to tell if it was from my bike or if it had been there for weeks. The lady got out to take a look. I was still in a daze. I didn't talk much. The guy and his wife had their own little conversation about whether or not there was a ding and whether or not it was caused by my bike. They also talked about filing an insurance claim. She reminded the guy that they had some kind of dent repair coverage through their warranty.

The guy was pretty amped up. Yelling and gesturing in a very animated way. He was a tubby little wealthy-looking guy in shorts and a bright orange polo shirt. His wife was fit and probably 10 years younger than him. She calmed him down and made him get back into the car.

She and I spoke for another few minutes. She wanted to make sure I wasn't hurt. I told her I didn't think I broke anything. She suggested we exchange info. I guess that's the sort of thing people do when there's a traffic accident. I didn't know how to react. So I just gave her my info and took her phone number. Then we all rode off.

The whole ordeal was probably 10 minutes. Super awkward and surreal. I was a little embarrassed that I fell off my bike in front of dozens of people. And I was in shock from the fall. Just dazed and bruised. I couldn't believe the guy's reaction to the whole thing. He was fuming.

During the couple of minutes when the couple were talking to each other and checking out their car, a young couple walked up to me on the sidewalk. The guy had sort of a hipster look. Tall guy, skinny jeans, flat-brimmed baseball cap. He looked at me directly in the eyes and said "You okay, man?" Maybe it was just because of that surreal daze I was in, but I picked up a tough-guy tone in his voice. Like he was implying "You need me to help you deal with this asshole?" "I'm okay, man. Thanks for asking though."

I live in a Center City neighborhood where there are rowhomes on both sides all crammed together with no yards or patios or garages or driveways. The only parking available is parallel parking on one side of the street. So there are maybe 20 spots available for 30 houses.

The neighborhood itself is working class. Predominantly African American. And by predominantly I mean there are two white families living on this block, myself included. This little tidbit would really be no big deal if it weren't for the fact that me and my family feel ostracized at times. I'll explain.

Whenever a snowstorm rolls through Philly, people have to shovel out their cars if they need to drive somewhere. It's a huge pain in the ass. So after completing this awful task, people often "save" their parking spot by placing a parking cone or chair or garbage can there. In general, people honor this practice and leave those spots alone. Then after the snow melts away, most people take their parking cones inside and return to the daily hassle of fighting for a parking spot. But some of my neighbors choose toextend the parking cone bullshit.

One of the repeat offenders is this old fella with a handicapped sign hanging from his mirror. I know I know. He's fucking handicapped. But not that bad. He has a slight limp. He takes his garbage out every week. He washes his car on the street. He carries groceries into the house all by himself. All I want is a level playing field where we all follow the same set of rules. I even suggested to him that he try to get a permanent handicapped spot.

Last spring, this old fella kept trying to save his spot long after the snow was gone. I started taking his space from time to time, moving the parking cone to his front stoop. Then we carried on a war of handwritten notes. He'd leave them on my car and I'd leave them on his parking cone. We both basically had the same argument. Him: "You're being disrespectful. Leave my cone alone." Me: "You're being selfish. You can't dictate where I can and can't park."

While all of this was going on (weeks and weeks), some of my other neighbors started following the old guy's lead. With the already limited parking, and his "reserved" spot, it was becoming harder and harder to find a spot. So they started saving their own spots too. Pretty soon, there were four or five reserved spots on the street. Would it be too pompous of me to point out that I was right in battling with the old fella? I should have fought harder before it came to this.

One night I was about to head home from band practice when I got a text from my wife, Lindsey. She told me there was one open spot remaining on our block. And it was right in front of my house. Unfortunately there was an orange cone in the middle of the spot. As we exchanged texts, she told me she'd move the cone so I could park there, knowing I'd be home in just a few minutes.

I pulled up to our block and sure enough, the spot was still there. I pulled up next to the car in front of the spot and threw it in reverse. As this was happening, a big black SUV raced up behind me and skidded to a stop, blocking me from the spot. I waved my left arm out the window to let them know I was trying to back into the spot. I heard laughter coming from the car. So I leaned out the window to discuss the issue. I could see a very large black guy in the driver's seat, with maybe 4 or 5 teenage boys in the car.

Me: "Hey man, I'm trying to park here."
Big guy: "That's my spot. I had a cone there."
Me: "I didn't see a cone, dude. I'm just trying to park in front of my house."
Big guy: "You can't just go around stealing people's cones. That's my spot. I'm parking there."
Me: "You have got to be kidding me. Who do you think you are? What makes you think you can decide where I'm allowed to park?"
Big guy: "I've lived here for 10 years. This is my spot!"
Me: "You know what? You're a shitty fucking neighbor!"
Big guy: "Hahaha! Move along. Move along."

This went on for a couple of minutes. Neighbors started poking their heads out their doors and windows. And the guy's fat wife/girlfriend came outside. I gave up the fight. I put it in drive and raced off around the block. I parked maybe two blocks away. I had my bike in the back of the car, because I had picked it up earlier that day. I hopped on my bike and raced back to my front door. A couple of minutes had passed.

The big guy was across the street with all the kids and his lady standing around him. When I say he's big, I mean it. Probably 6' 2", 250. And I'm 5' 10", 150. He could murder me with a high five. As I stepped off my bike to go into my house with my tail between my legs, he yelled over "There goes Lance Armstrong!" I think he meant it as an insult.

I threw my bike down (which was stupid, I love that bike), and I yelled back across the street. "You're a piece of shit. You have no right to decide who on this block deserves a parking space!"

Big guy: "Oh, big man! Trying to act tough." *the teenagers howled laughing after each of his statements
Me: "You're a bad person. You have no respect for your neighbors."
Big guy: "Go inside, man."
Me: "You can't tell me what to do, man!"

Then Lindsey poked her head out the door. One of the teenage boys yelled across the street "Go back inside, white lady!"

Me: "Get control of your fucking kids! They have no right to speak to my wife."
Big guy's lady: "Leave my kids alone! And stop cursing in front of them!"

If I made one mistake in this whole interaction, it was the repeated "shits" and "fucks". I was pretty heated. And the weeks and weeks of parking-related stress was weighing on me. I should have kept my cool a little better. Me: "I didn't mean to curse. But you have to understand, what you're doing to us is rude and selfish."

Then the big guy came across the street. He walked up to me and very calmly said "Can we talk for a minute?" "Sure." We walked halfway down the block as we talked. He started with a handshake and told me his name is Mike. The conversation lasted a few minutes. Here's the gist:

Mike: "We're not trying to mess with you. It's just that everyone else is using cones to block spots."
Me: "Exactly. That's the problem. I never get to park on my own street anymore."
Mike: "Listen. I didn't realize it was causing such a problem. We'll stop blocking spots."
Me: "That's all I want. Thank you. And I'm sorry I kept cursing in front of your kids."
Mike: "It's nothing man. They use all those words on their own."

Then we wandered into actual chit chat. I mentioned I had just come home from band practice. He asked me if I liked to get baked. I tried to play it cool by saying "sure - sometimes". So he invited me inside his house to smoke up. I politely declined.

Since then, things between me and Mike have been okay. But his wife still gives me shit. They have two SUVs now. And they do their best to get a spot in front of their house, just like everyone else. Except when they have two spots next to each other. When that happens, they'll leave in one car, while pulling their second car up a little to block both spots with one vehicle. Then when they get home, they move it back to make room for the second car. We had a little war in this case too.

And here's a sad epilogue for you. Remember that old guy from the beginning of my story? Well there was a block party last summer. Everyone was out in the street with barbecue and music and beer. Not bad at all. I mean, we probably looked a little out of place, but everyone seemed to be having fun.

Still, Lindsey and I and decided to head out for a while, so we walked to the end of the block where our car was parked and started strapping our kid into her carseat.

The old fella had been sitting with a group of old guys, drinking all day. Two of those old dudes were walking toward the end of the block having a drunken, mumbled conversation. Right when they got to where we were, one of the dudes stopped, turned away from me, and started pissing on the sidewalk. It was realllly awkward. But I figured he was just drunk and maybe didn't even realize we were standing right there.

I rushed to close the car door and walked around toward the driver's side to hop in. Then I heard the pissing man yell to his friend (who was standing right there - the only reason he was yelling was so I could hear) "I don't care who moves in. This is OUR motherfuckin' neighborhood!" I drove off without confronting them.

Not every story has a happy ending.

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.