Scenario one, 9:30 p.m. Monday, June 18: Thrasher Metal
    I persuade Emileigh to join me at The Gate, a concert venue in downtown Bakersfield. I of course know nothing about anything yet in this town, but four local bands are playing, and I'm thinking it would be nice to get a handle on the local arts scene.
    We arrive at 9:30 after leaving the directions at home and having to go back to get them. From the outside, The Gate appears to be a community center of some sort. As with many things in town, the entrance is not immediately apparent — the entire structure appears to be surrounded by a chain-link fence. We take a gamble with the lighted area to the left and are rewarded with music-ish sounds. The boy at the ticket counter appears to be about 16. He lets us in for free because they are already on the last band. He is heavily tattooed, as is everyone there. Of the 20 or so people inside, we are two of only four girls. Most of the guys there are shirtless, covered in tattoos and piercings, and thrashing to the noise coming from the stage.
   I thought I understood heavy metal — after all, Slipknot is from Des Moines — but this made me really reconsider. I was legitimately afraid that I would be physically harmed during this concert, and I think it might be the first time I've ever felt that way. It's certainly the first time I've ever felt that way at a music event. I mean, I've participated in some intense moshing at a NIN concert, but I never once felt like I was in any danger. Here, it was obvious that this was a group, and we were not part of it. The kind of fervent synchronized flailing reminded me of a ritual or something that could all-too-quickly get way out of control.
    But at the same time that it was disturbing, it was fascinating. At one point, about five of the half-naked boys started throwing fists and kicking in a line, their movements amazingly synchronized, and for a moment it was almost mesmerizing. And when the singer was quiet, the band wasn’t too terrible — they were basically a screams-only Metallica. After a couple of songs, I wasn't too uncomfortable. I still didn’t want anyone to touch me, but I sort of started to tap my foot. I can see how this sort of behavior can be a release. We stayed until the end of the set but left soon after.
    Emileigh remarked once that no one was hitting on us. I said they would be more likely to physically hit us. But it was true — I really think most of them barely noticed we were there. Maybe if you are moshing with such fervor, your hormones already have enough of a release.
    Someone later told me that The Gate is a Christian center?   

Scenario 2, 1 p.m. Tuesday, June 19: Vintage Clothes
    Emileigh and I finished our brought-from-home lunches in approximately 10 minutes. We decided to explore an antique store we saw on Chester with the rest of our break. We enter the store (I can't remember what it's called) and hallelujah! Racks and racks of vintage clothes, hats, shoes, you name it. A bit more pricey than my favorite store in Iowa City, but oh, so much selection! Lunch time ritual? You better believe it.

Scenario 3, 1:40 p.m. or so, Tuesday, June 19: Persistent suitor
    As we are walking back from the fantastic vintage clothing store, a man in his car waves at us. Flattered as I usually am when hit on by strangers, I sort of blush and shyly look away. And sort of wave.
    Not a good idea. The man blows us a kiss. I'm starting to get uncomfortable. I mean, getting hit on is nice, but there's a line. We turn the corner but he's stopped at a red light.
    "What if he turns the corner and follows us?" I ask Em.
    "I'll be surprised if he doesn't," she says.
    I look over my shoulder. Sure enough, the car approaches. He calls out:
    "I could fall in love right now."
    Oh, wow, I think, walking a bit faster.
    "I'm talking to you," he says. "What's your phone number?"
    I shake my head.
  "It's your smile. I can't resist it. Don't walk away, we may never see each other again."
    "He's not going away," Emileigh says, and then says to him. "What's your number?" She's hoping he'll give up. No such luck. He pulls over to the side of the road, actually gets out of his car, and follows us. We're so close to being back!
    "I'm Joe," he says.
    "I'm not interested," I say.
    "What's your name."
    I shake my head.
    Finally, Em convinces him to just give her his number and he leaves.

And that, friends, was the most exciting 16 hours I've had in Bakersfield yet. And it hasn't even been an entire 24-hours!

— Maggie Anderson