The gang went to see The President's Band perform live in Encinitas.

Everyone, Kyle Isaiah Tony Dan and Nick all piled into the sedan, each with their own preconceptions.

"I think they're a good band." Says Tony, dressed to impress, a pressed coat, cologne.

Kyle is always so critical: "Too political, it's about the music man, I mean do you really think they will last long enough?"

"That doesn't matter," says Nick, "The point is that if they do get fans, and enough fanfare, they could last long enough, the lead singer is twenty-six, or seven, and how old is the minimum for to be able to run for president?"

Isaiah knows these things, he's casually dressed, jeans and a pull-over, "Thirty five."

"So he's got six years of touring," continues Nick, "we'll see if after those six years, the band is popular enough, and hey, they might gain enough attention."

"Is the music good though?" Begs Kyle, a guitarist himself.

"Never heard them." Says Nick, thrusting his gaze out the window, to a darkening landscape as evening envelopes the land.

"They're great," puts in Dan, "they're a mix of lo-fi and east coast-y, sort of seventies rock."

"Whatever that is." Says Tony, still upset about some quarrel he and Dan had recently over a drum set getting sold and a car getting backed into another car.

Nick insists: "All they need is drive, regardless if the music is necessarily good as of yet, they have years to change their sound and vibe, but as long as they're positive, I think people will enjoy it, and then when the time comes, and he runs for president, he could take it, landslide."

They exit the freeway, the sedan's headlights casting a white glow ahead on the slick road as the car bumps over some train tracks.

Arriving at the venue, some cafe, a place full of nostalgia, driving by they see the line formed onto the sidewalk.

"I wonder how much the cover is?"

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