Blogspot, chocolate meltdown!
So my non-secret is that I have this huge boner for the well-dressed. Tonight's party at the Met suggested black and white attire, so this particular trip to the museum was satisfying in a way a normal excursion to a Calatrava exhibit could never be. The dress code was intended to mirror a black and white photography exhibit. We never found it, so we ended up wandering the modern art section noting things likes how a Miro painting called "The Potato" may actually have nothing to do with food.
Among the non-art attractions was a set of Christmas trees upon which you were supposed to hang your deepest wish, written in 1998-era silver gel pen on a black card. It had a very Postsecret feel to it, and the trees became rife with wishes ranging from the enchantingly hopeful (I wish Perry would notice me) to the creepily hopeful (I wish Leila would do me) to the insipid (I wish for world peace) to the misspelled (I wish Carl Rove would get indicted) to the hilariously desperate (I wish I wasn't so fat) to the gross (For great head, call me: 646-798-5555).
The bartenders only served juice and sodas. I ordered a ginger ale so that on the way back to Joe's, I took my first ever sober taxi ride. The driver had AM radio on, and we were amazed that the pundit was liberal. Now that the country is falling apart and Kansas has redefined science, I figure it's the stylish position to take. As three New Yorkers decked in monochrome, having just eaten truffles in an art museum, winding through the mean streets of the Upper East Side, we felt weird. We were so haughty, elite and out of touch with the retarded redneck on the radio that for a fleeting moment we felt like those born of privilege. Then we got to Joe's apartment and people were playing beer pong. What a drag, eh?
So my non-secret is that I have this huge boner for the well-dressed. Tonight's party at the Met suggested black and white attire, so this particular trip to the museum was satisfying in a way a normal excursion to a Calatrava exhibit could never be. The dress code was intended to mirror a black and white photography exhibit. We never found it, so we ended up wandering the modern art section noting things likes how a Miro painting called "The Potato" may actually have nothing to do with food.
Among the non-art attractions was a set of Christmas trees upon which you were supposed to hang your deepest wish, written in 1998-era silver gel pen on a black card. It had a very Postsecret feel to it, and the trees became rife with wishes ranging from the enchantingly hopeful (I wish Perry would notice me) to the creepily hopeful (I wish Leila would do me) to the insipid (I wish for world peace) to the misspelled (I wish Carl Rove would get indicted) to the hilariously desperate (I wish I wasn't so fat) to the gross (For great head, call me: 646-798-5555).
The bartenders only served juice and sodas. I ordered a ginger ale so that on the way back to Joe's, I took my first ever sober taxi ride. The driver had AM radio on, and we were amazed that the pundit was liberal. Now that the country is falling apart and Kansas has redefined science, I figure it's the stylish position to take. As three New Yorkers decked in monochrome, having just eaten truffles in an art museum, winding through the mean streets of the Upper East Side, we felt weird. We were so haughty, elite and out of touch with the retarded redneck on the radio that for a fleeting moment we felt like those born of privilege. Then we got to Joe's apartment and people were playing beer pong. What a drag, eh?
posted by Byron at 11:37 PM
1 Comments:
me + you = calculus
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