Hipster Howl: A Postmodern Soiree
That soiree on Saturday was moderately enjoyable and definitely postmodern. Matilda, my part-time girlfriend, threw a disco-coke party in her loft apartment. Every worthwhile party needs a quirky name, and Matilda chose LagerBloggerHideaway, since she live-blogged the whole powwow from her MacBook.
Remember my Chromeo/Diana Ross mashup? I burned several copies and distributed them to a select few of my friends, including DJ TechnicolorGoat4Walter, who deejayed at LagerBloggerHideaway. When my mashup hit the speakers, I was overjoyed. But of course, I appeared glum and apathetic. Emotions are for sellouts and sorority girls.
We got some decent photographs of the night. Violet was on lo-fi picture duty with her secondhand camera. Our artful, coordinated poses of nonchalance look so candid and natural when seen by outsiders. I mean, they are totally candid and natural.
By sunrise, Violet had already created the Facebook album. I crave tagging notifications. You know the feeling when you crawl out of bed at 2 P.M., hungover and smelling of overpriced cigarettes, and you log on to Facebook to see your newly-tagged photos? Those are the moments that make my life worth living.
Nelly was supposed to buy 15 cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon to chase our liquor. But the inconsiderate ninny bought kegs instead. Fuck me. When my Facebook friends admire my tagged photos, I want them to know I’m drinking PBR, not some mysterious red cup that might contain that Natty gargoyle-pee guzzled by mainstream suckers-of-JoePa’s-dick. PBR is the beverage of the all-American working class man, so it’s totally ironic when I drink it. Like when I wear my little sister’s DARE shirt. Not that I try to be ironic or anything. I’m really not ironic.
Jeremy made some organic maple crepes with natural maple syrup from the Maple Harvest Festival. They were tasty until I found out they weren’t vegan. Ew. I threw up all the PBR in my stomach and had to refill it with more PBR.
DJ TechnicolorGoat4Walter played “Young Folks” by Peter, Bjorn and John, and we almost got excited. I can really bust a moby on the dance floor, without looking too eager that is. A little head bob and occasional shuffle of the feet is all you need. Throw in a scowl and maybe a snap of the fingers and you’re rolling in alt cred. I am alt cred.
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