Sun! Surf! Stabbin'! Fuckin' A. It's that time of year again when the vicious dregs of our far-flung dystopian suburbs migrate to the downtown shores for a little summer funtime R & R - namely, rockin' and rampagin'! Which of course means lots of beer, lots of yelling, and with the crazed consumption of the former, lots of looking for trouble. Or more accurately, lots of inventing trouble. I'll never quite understand this specimen's blueprint for fun. And they're everywhere, no matter where you go - any place known for fun and festivity - they'll be there, tiny eyes glazed over in a state of rodent-like ferocity, wiry little bad vibe time-bombs ready to blow, ready to ruin the scene for everyone. I picture the preparations: "Let's see, sunscreen, towel, backpack, shiv..." Who thinks like that? And how in Hell do they manage to stay out of frequent incarceration? Maybe they don't. Maybe they just don't give a shit about anything. Except partying. With knives.