Now more than ever, The Stranger depends on your support to help fund our coverage. Please consider supporting local, independent, progressive media with a one-time or recurring donation. Our staff is working morning, noon, and night to make your contributions count. E arly last Tuesday night, the only thing on the Crocodile's dance floor was a pile of black-and-white balloons dead-still under harsh pink lights. Others featured a drawing of a cracked tombstone that read "Emo Nite. Mopey hiphop was piped in through the speakers.

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If I called myself a former emo kid today, the echoes of laughter from anyone who knew me in middle and high school could quite possibly deafen an entire city. I was not an emo kid. I wore a lot of pink and asked the dentist to do my braces in Gryffindor house colors and was too afraid to even trim my raggedy long hair, let alone dye it or get bangs. And I think it we're all being honest with ourselves, in the years of to , most Millennials were. In fact, I think given the opportunity, most of us would have gone full-on emo in that era, if not for the fear of upsetting our parental units.