I had no idea how long it would take me to get there from Santa Monica, so I snarfed my crabroll, told my crashpad host not to wait up for me and set off for Silverlake. I called Lomara from the freeway once I saw the sea of red brakelights ahead of me. As it turned out, she was running late as well. After a few minutes of panic and thinking "My god, am I nuts? I'm out here on an LA freeway alone at night, all hopped up on red bull, only half sure of where I'm going. Maybe if I turn up the music that honking noise will go away," the flow returned to the road.

The 10 to the 110 to the 101. How very binary.

"OK then, there's my turn off. Please let me over, Mr. BMW. I'm from out of town."

It only took three trips around the block and one illegal U-turn to find a good spot on the street to park on. I was early, very early and solo. I crinkled my forehead in the rearview mirror and saw the word "dork" appear in the creases.

To pass the time, I made a couple calls and then wandered across the street to 7-11 for another red bull.

I watched people go in and out of the club door, most of them turned out to be in the other bands and assorted staff. Finally, a threesome of blondes arrived signaling the official start of "the line". I figured I might as well wander over, because if one is going to dork out and get there early, one might as well get a good spot for the festivities, right?

As I took a phonecam picture (that I had to delete before uploading to make space later in the night,) of a becky bumpersticker on a newspaper stand in front of the club, I felt the "sizing-up" glances of the blondes. I looked up at them. Individually, I might be able to take them, but all at once?? I was dead meat.

.....to be continued