BY TRAIN - I arrived in the city, hot and humid as I ever knew, after a delayed start which began the day before, my resolve to awaken in time to catch the twenty one daily service from Fort Worth to Austin. Normally--that is to say when people aren't out in droves like summer bees buzzing and torn on the platform about where they should go, and who's bags belong with who.

On a plane this is much more controlled, and it is for that reason--along with expedition of the expedition inherent with flight--that I prefer the usual suspects, known better as the Airline Industry, to get me anywhere but home, or back to where my heart is not a damn day too soon.

But this, being summer, and me, being me--the uncertain sojourner of Capital proportion, whom's spending powers flux--I opted for the economical but still surprisingly comfortable and typically enjoyable railway.

Arriving at the station, the crowded bustle wasn't helped with the OUT OF ORDER letdown causing a sigh amongst many more than myself; My tickets bought online were unable to be retrieved without interacting with a human, my entry code punched into an impersonal kiosk who's sole role in life is rightfully printing my tickets, which I hand directly to the conductor upon boarding.

Tired, now, it's late, and I have traveled many miles and arrived a little late, back into the fray of "uh, I guess so yeah sure. Pour me another.

Of course, I studiously brought my trumpets along, and made sure to practice my fundamentals for about an hour before joining the games college kids play, and try to fit in until coughing, lazing, gazing, wading but swallowed by a wave.

Shirt and tie, trembling against the bathroom wall, digging through my pocket for my panic pills. This is something different, something I don't understand. I can't sleep, fearful streaming; Worried. I don't know what I think about it, and for all my medical research and news junkie ways, I don't want to read about it. Schizophrenia.

A manic depressive, in my case, a bipolar wrist cutter with brilliant euphoria beyond my control sometimes only hours later. What's got me keeping my cell phone in the closet, dormant even when it's turned on--seems nobody calls me--it's desperation that I'm drowning in psychosis; rage of pure paranoia. Fighter jets at three A.M., an increasing feeling that someone, for reasons that I wish I could undo, is waiting for the perfect crime; Car bombs don't make turning that key easier. Seeing things walking in the park that might not be there. A glance around in the coffeehouse, my world colliding with yours. Thought I heard somebody, but no one called my name.

On the road I catch myself gripping the wheel with such a grasp that my knuckles are white. If things are what they seem, a disturbing revelation that I want my life back, but I don't know what on earth to do.

HEAR THEY GROW...

Led by Matt Thiessen, the once-and-future snarky Ohio christian punk rock outfit completes another revolution sewn upon people, places, and things, bursting with new direction, tried-and-true ways and means of a Sadie Hawkins dance, required elements of style, and respect for the classics you'd hear with your driving permit behind the wheel, way back when mom & dad were riding shotgun, and a little too happy to have their CD in the stereo.

Thiessen, 29, is damn good at sounding 19; Laying down a tracks like "Candlelight" with a careful kind of intimate prowess, flowing seamlessly to a serenade of the soul via intermezzos, keeping with the successful production style of their previous efforts.

Listen closely for a glimpse into the subtly progressive insights both thematically and lyrically: It's clear Thiessen's been thinking on things, integrating heart of the previous closing tracks of "Mhmm" and "Five Score and Seven Years Ago", diverting from soothing-but-at-times-irritating seven minute finales of reprise, still keeping a polished nod to faith, heartache, and teen angst. (The Christian Rock recipe for those bible-toting boys with the cymbal-crazy drummer and embarrassingly out of tune guitars in the basement next door.)

Six or so albums in, and able to keep it together, the boys continually remind listeners that they're perfectly capable of trying new waters to make a splash and get their feet wet before wading through success on the airwaves and iTunes, giving fans return on investment like some kind of musical mutual fund, cranking out some much needed change you can believe in. 

And with enough to appeal for atheists to altar boys in a time when most established bands either can't  assimilate with new kids on the punk rock block, or have too much spark, wowing then fizzling like fireworks, Relient K delivers as they transcend what you want them to be, just as you start to wonder what they're dreaming up now.

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I never tried to learn many tricks, or be savvy on my skateboard when I started out. I earned my share of twisted ankles, scuffed up knees, and periods--months--of heel pain. Otherwise known as the unspoken concrete tuition for learning just enough to have a useful manual for cricks and crags in the city, a loud ollie to interrupt the annoying conversations of flaming gay dudes along Fifth & Washington, leaving Hillcrest for my place downtown. (Move to San Diego.)

I wasn't some vegan "save the earth" skater, or a full blown stoner either. I was just having fun without a car in the world rolling around downtown to get a slice to eat, a midnight catch-us-if-you-can rabble rousing free-for-fucking-all slalom in Horton Plaza with my crew, whom likely befriended me in particular due to my retention of an apartment downtown, rather than a room with the 'rents.

It started out with me, manic, shucking my car away in the Southland, a new young transplant to the ghetto-by-the-sea, also known as Oceanside, CA. It was there I began to learn the way things worked. You didn't go to anyplace in the mall to buy your stuff, because that's reserved for the gullible tourists and lazy posers. If you're going to fake it, at least take the time to actually build a unique skateboard, fuck.

Nah, you went to Asylum in O'side, Ninestar in West L.A., Utility in Del Mar, and, if you felt you had at least almost-had-your-kickflip-down, and paid enough dues, you'd go pick some stuff up respectfully among the pros from the magazines, laid back talking shit amongst each other.

McGill's in Encinitas.

I just mainly rode from point A to point B.

That was before I started my developing career as a photographer about three years ago, since then, here I've had access to some boards, but they're not mine. Pieces of me are there--the baker deck on this one, the thunder truck trademark-turn , the unmistakeable roar of someone's bones...

Finally, I broke down and shelled out almost two bills for a proper setup. I don't know why, and I don't give a shit, all I know is that I skate Baker. Maybe their team board with concave that doesn't feel like a popsicle stick beneath my disproportionately large feet, size 12--I'm 5'6". Never knew Andrew Reynolds wore about a size 11, but it makes sense now, I've got a crush on the concave and subtle lip of his stuff. Even the mechanics and terms for design in skateboards can sound sexy, sometimes.

I finally really had a nice session to myself last night--about 3 AM, sober, full moon, summer breeze, I spent about three hours just running my basics, having fun, getting intimate with my board and fine tuning the trucks like a cellist tuning to concert pitch.

Heel to toe, wrapped in puffy Adios, solid surefire spitfire 58mm black "Goodyear" all purpose wheels, rolling so deep they put any black man's Cadillac spinners sitting on dubs to shame with swiss bones on those World-Famous Thunder Trucks. MOB. Grip-tape coarse enough to file diamonds or sand the paint off the front door.

Merrily rolling along these two empty parking lots with split levels, small concrete medians, drain blocks, gentle slopes, well lit, and unseen, hidden off the main road behind village-style office suites (this place has a mother-fucking gazebo, I shit you not)

It's just on the other side of wooden prison bars, better known as the fence. So secluded, junior high stoners-in-the making occasionally gather in the aforementioned gazebo for a good while, smoking billowing amongst ADHD poster boys tickled by an exceptionally sticky green, presence unseen but well heard with their adolescent minds during lulls of laughing in prepubescent squawks and guffaws.

This perfect place to start, stay, and play about with no pressure or politics of a skatepark is not even two minutes away, just up the street, on the right along the sidewalk, where the fence runs. No need to jump it: There's a gate, and whoever has maintained it for the last decade was cool enough to put in a gate that's never locked.

It stays that way.

We also watched fireworks in the neighborhood (we didn't make it to the park in time to watch so we just chilled on the sidewalk) and then went to the bar for some drinks and billiards.

The events which occurred after leaving the bar are omitted.

Click here to download all pictures in this entry at a larger size.

Once in solitary detention, I would sit, fiddle my thumbs, silently wipe frustrated tears in the private and rather spacious bathroom as I kicked out thoughts...

"If I could just have access to my bag, I'll end this...down every sedative--six months' worth--and kindly let the polite and docile guards watching me through the glass know I'd be lying down for a nap. In an hour or two, I'd soon fail to breathe. I was tortured by these thoughts, and from Thursday until Saturday this pattern continued.

I was all but convinced I'd become unwelcome in the United Kingdom, but aside from the cunt who started the whole problem, I felt like just another guy chatting it up, my personality lending itself to laughter amongst the casually cautious fellows at my confined room, of sorts, guys who were nothing but kind, dignified, and fully and graciously common, giving me as much respect as I could ask for in my solitary "holding" area; Asking if I needed water, or a blanket, even--when ordering food--asking for my input upon their decision to get pizza, almost convincing me to eat some food, as I'd been unable to eat so much as a bag of crisps or a slice of toast since my time...doing time, if you will.

And so I ate, despite my sinking feeling deep in my stomach, if only for a chance to chat it up. To not be so alone. Excusing myself afterward to the bathroom, vomiting with soft sobs. Why the fuck was I leaning against a tile wall when all I wanted to do was pay taxes, work, and live in a country that by no effort of mine--but of my ancestors through military service--owed it's ass in some ways to the United States' involvement in World War II. I wasn't angry, just disappointed. 

Eventually I realized things were growing stagnant, and excised my Blue Genes. A phone call. A twenty-five minute wait. A well dressed man with the British Staff in his crosshairs, like some type of sniper from the American Consulate. And, finally, freedom in the form of a charter flight which had been arranged for me--a nobody--in no more than a matter of hours.

I've not much more to say, other than I'm waiting on my new passport, saving up money for another work permit, and waiting, ready, and willing to get back on another transatlantic flight for another go.

For the time when things align, when I will try again...I'm not giving up my dreams...

Little minds let little things burn big dreams with little flames; and you don't think I understand? But little holes in parachutes won't leave you falling--if they do...it's because you want to land.

("Little" by Andrew McMahon; excerpt)

There is no clear path to the choices young men must make to stake their claim in this world, nor is there any one person whom has the answers to questions about life and immortality. Have I already fufillled my fate upon a random act of kindness, aiding those in a time of need beyond my imagination?

My lust for a car started a chain of events that led me from Where the West Begins to where the West ends. I had it all...a morning walk to an easy, fun job (albiet stressfull) with a vista of Oceanside so grand it kept rent forever wasted on an empty apartment, its teenage tennant instead often spending long nights alone leaning against the pier, ears washed with waves and eyes gazing at the stars.

But I wanted more, and got it. A prestigous banking career that took me from an apartment, a girlfriend, and a generous salary readers of San Diego Magazine gleam of, all the way to Malibu. With keys to a vault housing Hollywood's diamonds and pearls, and Dick Van Dyke's occasional visits to deposit his cheques.

Was it fate that a friend made on the internet, so true to his heart and pure in intent as to wait five hours for me at the airport, welcome me to his humble room rented in a part of England that had seen better days before, and give me a reason to end the stalemate of suburban luxury I'm caught in?

Could it be that something larger than myself guided a lost passport from the haloween hazed streets in Austin into the hands of a stranger that googled my name and sought me out, mailing it to me without even asking so much as for reimbursement for postage, without which I would have never been able to make the trip of my youth that led me to this point--this moment--defined by yet another risk taken, but so large and so grand that even in my methodical, analytical, and intelligent effort is still a leap of faith into the unknown.

There are those who say I could not be making a try for this at a worse time. The dollar is weak, a world economy in poor arrears. I've spent much of my life studying loads of subjects for hours...learning the intracices of banking law, the absolutes of pharmacy, and the essence of photography, but what have I got?

A bipolar mind of a manic depressive wondering if things will never change...if my daily dose of antiepileptics, mood stabilizers, anti-anxiety drugs, and ADHD course of treatment is just a product of my environment, or true science. 

Insofar as these things are concerned, they are not paramount. Six weeks remain until once again wrapping my arms around my mother at the airport, bidding friends goodbye--for however long I do not know--boarding the KLM:

Once more across the pond. 

My socks were rocked, and that's saying a lot...because I don't wear socks.

I ended my pricey AT&T affair, realizing I'd unwittingly become a slave to oddly unexplainable monthly service charges (a technology infrastructure surcharge on a $150 bill? Seriously?) and embarrassingly tripe international rates to Australia and Europe, even with the "World Connect" feature (yet another monthly fee), a wicked form of legal robbery rivaled only by collect calls, pound shoppe calling cards, and college tuition.

I'm not even going to touch the things which transpired in Amsterdam, but will admit to being turned into a proper Manchester scalawag at a chip-shop drunk dialing whoever, potentially building a telecom bill that'd sober me up faster than a Chav can think Burberry.

Of course, before I left I thought of these possible scenarios (and then some). Already enjoying an awesome Skype Subscription on my laptop, I happened to stumble across Netgear's WiFi Phone with Skype which demanded an immediate giddy go at Best Buy, stoked at the concept, I was digging the box and charging cradle. By then I was on suburban snarky autopilot, slipping off my Roos and zipping open the pocket conveniently containing mum's charge card. You know the rest.

A minute or two of googling would have you staying away from this phone like killer peanut butter, and let me be the first to say that this technology is far from perfected, and truly in its developing stages (there was only one model available for purchase at the store I visited, and only a handful on Skype's website.)

Like I mentioned, this isn't something to box up and give to your hapless off-to-college freshman or dad who thinks he's state of the art, it took a bit of trial and error, a firmware update and a few tweaks resulting in a phone able to call anywhere, with clarity comparable to a cell phone, and flawlessly integrate with the desktop Skype application.

The hardware: Retro basic for sure, the simple Nokia throwback reigns supreme as it should (why take something that's perfectly good and mess it up?) built with a solid feel and generous screen, a blue glow shines bright with an added touch of style illuminated by backlit keys shining to compliment the standard button layout (right down to the press-and-hold-1 for voicemail) and durable hard-to-scratch polycarbonate shell.

The wall charging unit which can plug directly into the phone or into the charging cradle is perhaps one of the most nifty and useful features of this phone: battery charging is achieved by a run-of-the-mill USB port, allowing a great deal of flexibility for the international traveler and couch surfer alike to keep the unit powered up and steady as she goes...

The speakerphone is a bit loud, but useful, and with updated firmware, the unit has little to no echo problems with landlines, cell phones, and can also handle the phone trees from hell, a longtime frustration of skypeout PC desktop platform users - the exhaustive "...or, if you are calling from a rotary phone, please remain on the line..." is increasingly replaced with a click and cursing after sitting through a minute or two of phone tree coaxing.

The claimed standby time and talk time vary depending on factors such as brightness, number of incoming calls, time spent debating which among the three ringtone choices best suits your individuality...on average, the phone can go a solid day without needing a charge, and can provide about an hour and a half of time to discuss the subtleties of talking trash with your mate from sheffield.

The software: Built to Skype. The phone seamlessly integrates your contacts, both skypeout and skype contacts, and offers the ability to manage those contacts, choose your status level (Online, Skype Me, Away, etc.), set a mood message, and even search for skype users based on names and e-mail address.

To get the most out of the phone's capabilities, plopping down a few fivers to get a skype-in number (or two) will maximize the software experience - skype credit can be viewed through the interface, as can the voicemail message retrieval system. For those business types that just have to start out a message with "Hi, today is...", the integration of such options and services will be a welcome luxury.

The nitty and gritty of network interfacing is the biggest complaint among users of this device--and I'll admit it can be frustrating...as a U-Verse (AT&T Fiber Optics) customer, I'm given righteous access to WiFi hotspots galore, but unfortunately, any hotspot that requires web-browser authentication is rather useless to the phone, although it supports nearly all types of secure networks, and users have the extended option of joining the T-Mobile hotspot network or The Cloud network interface.

Fortunately, if you're an urban dweller, WiFi junkie like me, you'll never be too far out of touch for too long, and even then, you can set incoming calls to forward to a friend's cell phone, or any number for that matter, allowing options for staying connected.

As for the real world? This phone accompanied me on my trip to europe and rarely let me down - that is not to say there weren't times when I could've really used the instant connectivity of a cell phone and cursed the lack of available WiFi, but just as such, the ability to use a public connection and communicate with family back home, or friends, hotels, and travel agents anywhere from Ireland to Amsterdam was at least $20 saved in a single day, not to mention the suave move of purchasing a skype-in number in the UK, allowing friends to have a local number to call me. Almost as if I lived there!

Is it worth it? That's all up to you, search around the web a bit and see just how much free WiFi exists in your area. Skype offers money back satisfaction on most all of its products, and unless you've put it through hell, you should be able to return the phone within a month or so (check the fine print of the return policy if you're not sure).

Back in Dallas, the rolled-up shirtsleeve-and-loosened-tie moguls roaming about downtown know the perfect places to take a cigarette break with their iPod in hand, facebook inbox queued up...and even the commuter train that crisscrosses the metroplex offers 3g service.

For free, of course.

And you thought it was rain.

The prerequisite in this small, money-laden suburb (Pop. 21,519) exceeds requirements set by the Texas Education Association for participation in school-sponsored activities, such as band, choir, and--of course--sports.

Texas law requires that a student be in good academic standing and keep within an allowance of unexcused absences in order to participate in interscholastic activities, but stops short of requiring that parents be educated about illegal drug use and underage drinking.

Combined with searches for contraband by drug-sniffing dogs, random student-athlete drug testing, and student drug education programs that begin in elementary school, the parental education curriculum aims to preempt overdose and addiction epidemics that continue to plague schools in the 12-county Dallas-Fort Worth-Arlington metropolitan area.

With little regulation from State or Federal agencies, each district is left to tailor and mold its own drug testing and education policy, navigating the narrow road leading to a balance between budgets, politics, and rates and risks for abuse.

Debate among drug testing in public schools has reached the United States Supreme Court, which, in its most decisive and recent ruling on the subject, said that students participating in extracurricular activities have a reasonable expectation of a loss of privacy, such as with athletes in locker rooms, and found drug testing programs do not violate a student's constitutional rights.

No argument may be needed here, with a high school parking lot that, teachers joke, has better, newer, and more expensive cars than the faculty lot; where students have access to money and often learn about how to abuse over-the-counter, prescription, and narcotic drugs--ironically--on the internet.

In the 1990s, the North Dallas suburb of Plano, a similarly affluent, predominately white bedroom community was stunned by the deaths of several students caused by heroin, a drug normally associated with inner-city life.

And while recent studies suggest that teenage drug use is down, evidence exists that--especially in affluent areas--the drug trade is alive and well. Recently Thomas Crutsinger was sentenced to eight years in prison after being convicted of supplying and selling ecstasy and prescription drugs to students of a nearby school district. Prior to his arrest, Mr. Crutsinger was on the Grapevine-Southlake Soccer Association's board of directors.

A junior at Carroll Senior High School, who requested his name be withheld from publication for fear of disciplinary or retaliatory action, said drugs were readily available in most social circles, especially highlighting the availability of prescription drugs like Xanax.

He admitted to having an addiction to the painkiller oxycontin that, at times, cost him hundreds of dollars a month. He added "when I first started doing it, I didn't know much about it...how to use it, and which [pill] was which"

"But then, I went online."

If you've ever just felt like there's something outside of normal life...this epic independent film based on the novel of the same title, penned by Blake Nelson ("Girl"), might offer you some consolation.

Because you're not alone.

Based around a teenage skater's search for something more than the world that dominates his waking hours - divorce that's not yet been made official among his parents, siblings with the same problems, and the ever increasing impossible scheme through adolescence - the film chronicles the crumbling mind of youth already in too deep after witnessing a murder he was all too familiar with.

The film is treated as a series of vignettes - never too light, and never too dark, with a back and forth woven story threaded with montages that tell more than a 150 page script could ever hope for. There is no linear sense in thought, but the events are drawn together like the mind of the young man himself.

To those who assume the film is laden with the traditional glamorization of skateboarding counterculture, you're way the fuck wrong, and to those looking for a film that's an extended and film noir Baker crew dvd, you're in the wrong place.

Because in all ways, this film transcends these realms entirely, while never leaving either. High school hallways filled with Strauss. Filming techniques that trick the eye. Dialogue that's too good to be on the streets.

To those interested in Gus Van Sant's continuing perfection of the delicacies that seperate independent film from Bad Boys II, you will be satisfied in the evolving style of complex camera treatment juxtaposed with times when it appears as if the lens has been thrown upon the floor.

This is one of those flicks that you're thinking about a week after last saw it, and a few weeks later, you're still thinking about it.

Or is it just paranoia?

By Brody Andrew Mulligan

MARICOPA COUNTY, AZ -- MANY hours before the sun rose here, coordinated in no small part to catch the eye of the press just a day before Father's Day, in an operation code-named "Operation Daddy Dearest," sheriff's deputies fanned out across the county, arresting approximately 70 so called "dead-beat" parents--those who are behind or delinquent on court ordered child support payments, according to an article published in The Arizona Republic.

While some offenders owed several thousand dollars worth of child support payments, others were reported to have been behind on lesser amounts--arresting such offenders, while within the law--may do more harm than good.

Partly because people in jail are unable to work, further complicating their economic stability in an economy that has seen better days, and in no small part considering the costs of housing inmates in county jails--financed by taxpayers--questions have been raised concerning the viability and integrity of the sweep.

While most agree the issue of proper payment of child support is important and lawful, the imprisonment of those who have failed to due so, in lieu of liens, levies against assets, wage garnishments, and bank account seizures, the economic and social cost of such an action in a jurisdiction burdened with more than a one-million-dollar-deficit has rattled the saber in this dry, developing county that seats the city of Phoenix.

Pro rata, Sheriff Arpaio's office is the named defendant in more more civil lawsuits than any other law enforcement office in the United States (approximately 2,500), including an ongoing legal battle which is expected to reach the State Supreme Court regarding Sheriff Arpaio's limitation of visiting hours for attorneys and other personnel for inmates housed in county facilities; a majority of such inmates have not been formally arraigned and are awaiting their first court appearance.

In the federal arena, another ongoing legal battle has Arpaio starkly front-and-center: The County of Maricopa, Arizona, led by attorney Dennis Wilenchik, in defending a class action wrongful death suit, Hart vs. Arpaio, has attempted to separate the County itself from Arpaio, in an unsuccessful argument brought before United States District Court. County Attorneys sought to continue a delay in the case which is purported to have lain dormant on a docket for three years before a judge recused himself from the case, allowing a new judge to continue considering motions brought forward by plaintiffs, civil rights activists, and the American Civil Liberties Union.

The case is unique in that the named plaintiffs have not been convicted of any crime--they are simply being held awaiting bond hearings, arraignments, hearings, and other legal motions.

Many, if not most of the plaintiffs are deceased.

Arpaio has been both hailed and condemned for tough-on-crime tactics that include the re-institution of chain gangs, outdoor housing to deal with jail overcrowding, and burials of indigents by inmates. Many grassroots organizations have protested the availability of healthcare, mental health services, and policies and procedures of the Sheriff's Department that may have led to the early deaths of several inmates in the last decade.

Mothers Against Arpaio, a coalition of women who have staged protests and rallies outside jails, courthouses, and other government offices--often enraging Arpaio, who reportedly barges past the protestors "red faced," continue their efforts to remove Arpaio from public office.

Once a touted member of the local Republican Party, which is loosing ground among newly registered voters identifying themselves with the Democratic Party, mirroring a nationwide trend among newly registered voters as the widely contested Democratic Primary battle between Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama brought thousands of new voters into the fray, Arpaio has failed to secure once solid endorsements from members within his own party as he prepares to run for re-election.

Plagued by debts from legal fees, hit by the rising cost of fuel, energy, food prices, and dealt a serious blow from the Governor's office when Gov. Janet Napolitano ordered a diversion of $1.6 million dollars in state funds from Arpaio's ambitious illegal immigration crackdown, Arpaio's office faces an unprecedented budget deficit this coming fiscal year.

Undeterred by death threats, a barrage of negative publicity, Arpaio vows to continue fighting for the law, those who elected him--and those who haven't--and re-election to the Maricopa County Sheriff's Office in November.

Speaking in 2002 to the New York Times regarding death threats against him and his family, Arpaio said "It only takes one time to die," politically, so goes the same.

Can't Love, Can't Hurt strays little from the band's signature combination of soft, driving rhythms and simple--but meaningful--lyrics, anchored by frontman Dan Layus' sultry piano riffs and intimate vocals, while also exploring a darker, more mature sound that begs not to be taken lightly.

Fans will surely notice a definite refinement of tone and style, along with deeper lyrics ("I ain't gonna make the same mistakes that put my mama in her grave") that hint softly at an effort to squash comparison and classification with Christian Rock groups like Relient K, Waking Ashland, and Switchfoot; Ironically, the original band members migrated from a conservative Christian college town in Illinois to Southern California, fulfilling a wish to (literally) distance themselves from an such an orthodox environment.

Seamlessly blending piano rock with dream-pop, Augustana dares listeners to a contemplate heartfelt, powerful tracks that shift between piano-and-vocals only vignettes of pure, ivory-pounding passion ("Fire") to ballads with hushed country-western influence ("Dust"), a sign that the group's small town, midwestern roots have weathered a migration to San Diego and scores of television appearances--a small piece of history that lends a big hand in shaping the band's future.

Still, despite the band's strength and potential, few tracks lend themselves to the fickle but strict demands of terrestrial radio--and while "Boston" was a success, the second single from their debut album, "All the Stars and Boulevards," flopped.

Time will tell if Can't Love, Can't Hate will again elude widespread popularity, remaining in a secluded but noticeable niche, or if the sophomore effort can parlay Sony/BMG's investment and marketing, banking on the fresh, refined, and less gritty tone that's already shown its strength online (an EP containing three tracks from the album released in February debuted at #2 on the iTunes rock charts).

This time around, a solid, well produced album--released just in time to be a perfect soundtrack to a leisurely, late night drive in spring nights that yearn for summer-- may be true enough to satisfy listeners and still leave them wanting more...