Some Fridays Are Stranger Than Others

There are two kinds of weekends. Those where you find
yourself drinking transparent decaf coffee with a bunch of
pimply, mohawked fifteen year olds in a thrift store/punk
rock venue located somewhere in the industrial outskirts
of St. Cloud and those where you don’t. When your week-
end winds up in the former category–and I think Tara can
back me up on this one–there isn’t really much you can
think besides, “Wow, here I am drinking transparent decaf
coffee with a bunch of pimply, mohawked fifteen year olds
in a thrift store/punk rock venue located somewhere in the
industrial outskirts of St. Cloud...”