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Journey to the Land of 10,000 White Girls

Once we had merged onto I94 and the clean, sensible skyline of Minneapolis was receding in the rearview mirror, I popped in the CD. "Should we find out what these nice, young boys sound like?" "Yes, let's," Leo said, sounding surprisingly eager. But of course, they sounded like any band of teenagers whose parents had paid for expensive equipment and music lessons and time in a professional studio and a slickly-packaged CD would sound. The music wasn't offensive, necessarily; it was just kind of like having a pitcher of tepid water poured all through your body and over your soul. About a minute into the third track, I turned the volume way down. "Well, have we heard enough?" "Nah . . . there'

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