|flickr/ Brian Teutsch|
As a teenager, I spent whole paychecks earned from working drive thrus and shipping fax machine parts in three places: Root Cellar Records in St. Paul, Nightfall Records in Minneapolis, and with whatever local idiot in Bloomington was selling pot at that time.
At the height of the dopey youthful experience, I had hundreds of rare European import CDs piled up and displayed by some sort of giant lava lamp rack. They're all gone now, save for a few jewel cases that are sitting in a burlap sack in my bathroom for some reason. I sold them so I could buy more weed. I don't miss them, either.
Because I hate CDs.