Dear hipsters, let’s talk.
First of all, the thing with PBR is that it sucks ass. It always has. And while people may have thought you were ironically cool for drinking it for 5 years ago, now you just look like your bar budget was five bucks: two shitty beers and a tip, and not even a buzz to show for it. Second, it’s ok to dance or otherwise display emotion at a show. You’d have to be either soulless or frozen with fear about what other people think of you to not want to dance to an awesome band, and I’d like to give you the benefit of the doubt re: your soul. The only one who cares how dumb you look dancing in a dress made of your gramma’s tablecloth is you. It’s gotta suck to be the band looking on out at a crowd of blank stares and tightly-folded arms. If you hated them, you wouldn’t be standing 10 feet from the stage, right? So, seriously. Work on the self-confidence. The table linens, we can talk about that later. Tuesday night, Matt and Cin and I went to the Turf Club to see Chooglin’. We took some awesomely gay pictures in the photobooth, then sat at the bar and played naked ladies. Matt had an impromptu reunion, as more than half the dudes from his old band were there. Die Electric was awesome, The Peelers were alright, and Chooglin’ rocked our pants off, as always. I think the moment I will never forget, though, was the girl on the far side of the stage who stood there with the rest of the unmoving crowd for the entire show, then raised a pale, emaciated arm clutching a PBR in salute at the very end. WHAT THE HELL, PEOPLE. Yesterday, we celebrated freedom by sleeping, knitting, watching Edgemont, doin’ it, going to Target, and having lunch at Salsa a la Salsa in the Midtown Exchange. We gaped at each other in glee and amazement when we realized that the music we were hearing was not Total Eclipse of the Heart, but Eclipse Total del Amor. (You can experience this phenomenon yourselves right here.) In the evening, we took over the patio and grilled a gardenburger, brats, corn, asparagus, peaches, and the last remaining buffalo in North Dakota with Wendy and Cindi. We had intended to go to the D4 show at Triple Rock, but ended up sitting out on the patio til almost midnight playing canasta. Everybody loves canasta. This morning, I wanted to believe it was just a terrible dream that I should have to get up and go to work while Matt got to stay in bed, but no. Here I am, counting the hours til work happy hour, which at least gives me one good reason for being here today. My boss does indeed throw an awesome party. Tonight, I have a dream. This dream involves finishing the knitting project for my mom’s birthday, starting on some baby booties for a shower next weekend, and probably laying on or around Matt. Don’t ever let it be said that I’m not an achiever. Jenni