That's When I Reach for My Revolver

I went to American Apparel and Misshapes this weekend. In a sea of sippy vacant pipsters, I began to wonder if they're all in on some joke I'm not privy to. Or if they've ever used the word privy. In their devotion to irony, irony became something familiar, like gum on a sidewalk. Something familiar and annoying. Fun at all costs, like running top speed at a wall.

Like like like. Similes for everyone.

I did have fun, though. I'd like it to be known that Siberia is the best bar I've ever been to. I think it's on 40th and 8th or 9th, almost into Hell's Kitchen. The barstools are made of duct tape and good intentions. The owner is the nicest man while still being the scariest. When we were walking in the door, a young buck was pissing on the sidewalk next to us. It did not smell like popcorn.

I met Judah Friedlander on the street. He held my hand and complimented my purse, freshly purchased that very afternoon. He was charming and precious.

And, once again, I had a tingle-in-your-undies-inducing excellent meal at Jane restaurant.

And then I came into work this morning to some bullshit. Such is life.

Thank you Kathleen for an awesome weekend.