You’re going to want to start your weekend on a Thursday evening. Thursday is the new Friday, everyone knows that. If you can secure a remote work day on Friday, even better. The “return to office” crowd can argue all they want, but hybrid work is the future and you can’t convince me otherwise. The first thing you’ll have to do when you get home is unwind from the stress of the commute that takes you through Downtown at rush hour. You’ll need a solid half hour to unclench your jaw after I-35.
Next, meet up with two of your favorite bisexuals at your neighborhood coffee shop. One will order an IPA and the other a loose-leaf tea. You’ll order poke from a food truck and then you’ll realize that all you brought is a half-smoked joint. Everyone will complain. Smoke what you have while you rant about office politics, which leads to city politics, which leads to national politics, which leads to the suggestion that everyone should come back to your place to roll a fresh joint.
Give your friend some bud and let him complain about how your brand of rolling papers is too thin. Argue back and defend the classic Raw because you order them in bulk. Watch him take forever to craft the perfect cone and even longer to pack the green. Let him take his time because rolling pretty joints is important to him. Grab a lighter and a jacket and walk to your closest market for sour candy and chocolate. Smoke half the joint on the walk and the other half on the couch while you watch Heated Rivalry (with bisexual commentary is the only way).
On Friday night, get dressed up and go Downtown. Yes, sometimes you feel too old to go Downtown, but your girlfriend got tickets to see one of your favorite bands at Mohawk and brought you tacos from one of your favorite taco trucks, the kind where the salsa is served in tiny plastic bags. (If you don’t have a girlfriend, you can substitute a regular friend.) You’re going to be running late trying to figure out what to wear because you mostly dress for work and the gym now and your girlfriend looks great in the new skirt she thrifted the weekend before. You’ll settle on a variation of the outfit you always wear and roll up a sativa hybrid while you eat your tacos. You’ll realize that it doesn’t matter that you’re running late because the band doesn’t come on for another hour and forty minutes and you know where to find good street parking.
Once you get to the venue, order two Diet Cokes from the bar and tell them to keep the tab open. Next, find your way upstairs and spark up the fresh joint with your girlfriend. Start to feel your shoulders drop as your body realizes the weekend has arrived. Have some good conversation. Do some people-watching. Look up the opening band on your phone because they’re actually pretty good. Make your way back downstairs and ask the bouncer where the bathroom is. Realize that when you’re stoned, public bathroom graffiti transforms into a revelation, a gallery of countercultural art, and a grassroots form of revolution.
Find your way back upstairs. Settle into a spot in the back and feel like Jane Goodall as you observe Gen Z’s concertgoing rituals, mating rituals, and style choices. (The early 2000s really are back.) Embrace the fact that everyone here is younger than you and that you’re more excited to go home and eat the H-E-B yellow cake in your fridge than you would be to go out on Sixth once the show is over. Let the joint do what it’s supposed to do and immerse yourself in the live music experience that, despite everything, is alive and well in our city.
On Saturday morning, carpool with your friend to protest ICE at City Hall. Complain with your friend about the fact that it’s a beautiful day and you’d rather be doing literally anything else, but remember that, as Kendrick Lamar says, somebody gotta do it. Get excited that you found another good parking spot. Scream and chant until you’re tired because your neighbors are being dragged out of their houses and cars, kidnapped and deported, and it’s the very least you can do. Someone will hand you a flyer for another community organizing event on your way out. Take your friend to get a latte at Buzz Mill and walk around Town Lake afterward and promise them a joint. Find the perfect sunny spot to sit at the lake and realize that you actually forgot the joint.
Apologize to your friend, let them laugh at you, and take them to a cannabis cafe to get an iced tea and some flower. Watch your friend roll a joint at a picnic table in the back and get way too deep into a discussion of generational politics and completely fail to solve the ideological gap between boomers and millennials. Take a break and browse around the art fair set up inside. Buy some jewelry from a local artist. Take the rest of the joint and your iced tea and walk to the thrift store because the weather in late January is perfect until it’s not. When you arrive at the thrift store properly stoned, consider buying a sign that reads “Life without dogs… I don’t think so” and a mug that says “Got my Fauci Ouchie.” Pause for a moment of deep existential dread at the time that has passed since lockdown and your fear of the unfathomable future. Walk back to your car.
On Sunday, roll one more joint and post up outdoors at a different neighborhood coffee shop. Read a book, make a grocery list, do some admin tasks on your laptop. Around 4pm, realize that the next day is Monday and the spreadsheets and emails are looming. Go home and take a long walk. Smoke the rest of your final joint and watch the sunset at the park.
People say Austin is a drinking town. They also say it’s a tech town, a foodie town, way too expensive, way too hot, a blue dot in a red state, overrun with Lime scooters and empty Waymos. All of these things are true. Like any other major U.S. metropolis, our city is plagued by gentrification, outrageous rent prices, and annoying college graduates bragging loudly about their startups at the table next to you. People love to criticize it, defend it, argue about it online, and try to predict where it’s going. Austin is just like any other American city: a place with hidden gems, quirky local customs, and great food made by our immigrant neighbors. Your experience of the city depends on the way you choose to move through it and the community you cultivate for yourself.
At the end of the day, home is where you roll your joint.
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This article appears in February 20 • 2026.
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