FRIDAY – We were pretty trashed by the time we stumbled into the Silver Dollar. Pet Sun were playing one of the late slots on Friday, taking the stage in the wee hours of the morning — that time of night when the number of beers you've had is more of an abstraction than a concrete figure. But trashed is a pretty good way to stumble into the Dollar. And it's a pretty good way to see Pet Sun, too. The Hamilton punks are a blur. A roar. An earthquake. A fist. A bloody fight in a parking lot you can't remember. The promise of a Saturday morning hangover made of fuzzy memories and purple bruises. They are a rising wave of electricity and distortion vibrating through the thick air of a hot room. They are loud. They are raw. And they are good.