There is violence in the air. Most of the assholes guards involved in the torture of Iraqi prisoners are from Cumberland, Maryland - way out on the state's arm, but still pretty much in my own backyard. And on Friday afternoon, the Baltimore suburb of Randallstown saw the sort of school shooting that Gus Van Sant doesn't make movies about, though my friend Nat told me that it was eerily similar to a scene in the Beanie Sigel opus State Property. This was the type that doesn't involve introverted picked-on white kids. Instead, it involves a bunch of kids getting into an argument about a girl, then coming to a high school just as a charity basketball game was letting out and firing indiscriminately into the crowd, hitting four people, none of whom was the intended target.

And then Saturday night, after an amazing Lungfish show at the Ottobar, I went to a ridiculously fun party in Hampden and saw about a million kids I hadn't seen in forever. The party was broken up by police about an hour later, which is understandable considering it was a loud, crowded party in a residential area. What isn't understandable is the way the party was broken up: three police cars, one paddy wagon, and handcuffs on any kid who talked back. I saw my friend Nanci thrown to the ground by three cops; I saw her head hit the asphalt. Last night, I talked with Nanci's boyfriend Justin, who'd also been arrested. He spent the night in central booking, an experience he compared to spending 15 hours in a Greyhound station bathroom with eight dudes. He was released at the same time as everyone else from the party, but Nanci wasn't. Last night, nobody knew where Nanci was. I still haven't heard anything, and I'm worried.

Lines are being drawn. I always envied my parents for living in a time when every kid with half a brain was united against a common enemy. Now I'm not so sure.

I can't wait to see M.O.P. at the Ottobar. I need to blow off some steam.