Play some Fifty Cent, boy.

The buzz is wearing down, but I am fresh from a cheap-ass night out, mid-week/Salt Lake-style.

Long overdue in taking up Sara's advice, a few of us headed to the Skatin' Station for dollar night. That's right, Skatin' Station. For those not in the know, it's a public skating joint, where on Wednesday nights -- and apparently every night through August now -- one (1) American dollar gets you through the door and a pair of rental skates. As in, roller skates. Not that inline bullshit.

There is something very intriguing about hanging out with junior high kids and families while accompanied by a couple of 25-year-olds and a 30-year-old. And I couldn't tell you the last time I had a pair of legitimate, old school roller skates on my feet. It was odd. I expect my ass and quads to be sore tomorrow, especially on the left side, since you can only make left turns at that joint.

The highlight of it all... a young dude, let's say 11-ish, in pink Lacoste polo shirt and matching pink hat cranked to the side shouting from the corner of his mouth, "Play some Fifty Cent, boy," as he rolled past the D.J. booth. The D.J., incidentally, was several years his senior and seemed to only be playing tracks off what I assume was the Beegees Greatest Hits.

Then, it was off to the Desert Edge Brew Pub, where with a flashing of Matty's expired University ID, we received half-off pitchers of good beer. Love it.