If Sunday was made for the New York Times, the stoop on the southeast corner of Bedford and North Sixth was made for Hipster Bingo. Reminded of this long-forgotten game by Fat Asian Baby, on Saturday afternoon E and I armed ourselves with two playing cards courtesy of Schmancy Hedge Fund's color copier, brown-bagged tall boys of Bud Light, and a hearty sense of cultural superiority. (Let us not discuss what our planning and playing of this game implies.) Although the game is a couple years old, we had no trouble getting through two and half rounds, ironic trucker caps included. We were called out by clever passersby on occasion ("Bingo!"), but it was all worth it for the look of sheer glee on E's face when she spotted the long-awaited ironic mustache. Stay tuned for the 2005 edition (think fauxhawks, 3/4 length leggings, and anal bead necklaces) once I get me some Photoshop.
I left E for a brief while to attend the modern dance performance thingamabobber in McCarren Park Pool. The words "modern dance" evoke instant eye rolling for me, but I agreed to attend since I'll try anything once, a policy that has proved mostly unnecessary (hardcore punk show at CBGB in 1999, anyone?) but still irresistible. So I was skeptical. And in the end, justifiably so. Agora is as over-thought and tedious as its description--"Performed inside the large pool, the overlapping narratives of Agora will produce the illusion of travel through the different layers of visceral urban experiences and explore the phenomenon of agoraphobia as a social and physical reaction to urban architecture"--and S and I left after 45 minutes of waiting for the "site specific" spectacle to start and 15 minutes of watching marginally talented dancers writhe on the concrete in their site specific Chuck Taylors. I did get this neat picture of an archaic diving board, though. And Tien Mao has some quality pictures of the actual show, which is more than you'd ever need to see.
Then it was up the street to Greenpoint, where seemingly everyone lives these days, to reconnect with E and go to Drone's Doppelganger's surprise birthday party. It was in full effect when we arrived, and you know fun abounds when Drone's double-fisting includes a nearly empty bottle of liquor.
Ever the party animals, E and I plopped ourselves down on the couch in front of the coffee table where we discovered a well curated cheese platter and, curiously, a digital thermometer. The thermometer was either a piece of crap or I am dead and don't know it yet, like Reese Witherspoon's character in that new movie with Mark Ruffalo and Napoleon Dynamite.
Earlier in the day, Drone had bought rubber horse head masks for him and DD. I think this picture speaks for itself. "Neigh!"
5 comments:
yeah i have another great one of you with the spill AND pit stains. thought i'd best keep that one to myself, though.
apparently stains are the new black.
yay hipster bingo.
and, uh, neigh?
the sound horses make. did you never have one of those kid's toys that you pull the lever on and the arrow spins around and it plays the sound of the animal it lands on? i forget what they're called, obviously.
yes yes. i am familiar with horse noises. i was merely raising a virtual eyebrow about the following statement and accompanying picture"Earlier in the day, Drone had bought rubber horse head masks for him and DD. I think this picture speaks for itself. 'Neigh!'" As though the caption explains everything and no further qualifying explanation necessary. As though it's totally normal that Drone bought rubber horse head masks. And as though there's nothing the least bit unusual that they're standing around wearing them while presumably plastered such that really, no, no explanation needed. That is what I was inquiring about.
i was just lazy and didn't want to write anything else. sue me.
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