As I brought my currently moccasined feet down on the semi-comfortable patio made up of astroturf, we were not too far from Harding Middle School. It’s where I so badly wanted to be a punk rocker—mostly to impress a girl, as you do—but, of course, had parents that would never let me dress like that. So while I was never able to be a punk there, maybe I can be a punk here at Burger Punk, 3012 N. Walker, Suite B.
My schoolmate-in-arms Jodie and I walked into the painted black edifice—Goth Burger would’ve worked well too, guys—our twisted fingers in a Brit-heavy v-sign as a piss off to total conformity, but the one or two people working there really didn’t care; I think that was mostly because we were old fucks and they were just young kids.