He's just not that into you!!!!!!!!

Pictures of our life:

Modern romance

So if asking a boy, via Facebook, if he wants to go pick up weed with you isn't the best way to go about initiating some sort of romance.. I don't know what is.

Peter, Paige, & Lucy

Just some stupid fuckin' kids.

Cosby influence @ Marc by Marc

Versace

Dress vs. Dress

Alberta Feretti:





vs. Luella Bartley

Hear that, Michael Phelps? We're having a moustache party tonight, and I guess you're invited.

Today's glitzy androgyny

of decaying wood

Externally, the jollity of aged men has much in common with the mirth of children; the intellect, any more than a deep sense of humour, has little to do with the matter; it is, with both, a gleam that plays upon the surface, and imparts a sunny and cheery aspect alike to the green branch and grey mouldering trunk. In one case, however, it is real sunshine; in the other, it more resembles the phosphorescent glow of decaying wood.

I started The Scarlet Letter this afternoon. The writing is pretty awesome. These winding sentences, all pregnant with punctuation and shit. I love it. So anyway. Yeah. In bed, pretty much all day, chewing on earlyish American literature, smoking in the window, eating good cheese, listening to Rev Run on Wait, Wait, Don't Tell me... It's 2 am and the street sweeper is going by, just as it's gone by every night this week at this hour, and I can hear all the drunkies in the street, crawling back to their small, sticky existences. Haha.

Allegoooorey

Go forth with integrity

This is a man's world

Also, I'd just like to take a moment to mention how dope (even if I am royally tired of seeing topsiders on hipsters) the menswear looks at Boy by Band of Outsiders were before Selectism.com does; I can think of few better sources for springtime sartorial inspiration than the hypothetical lovechild of Jacques Cousteau and Malibu in the '70s.

And that woman, was Martha Washington

Well, I go back to Edinburgh tomorrow, meaning, yes, my summer has actually, finally reached its unfathomable end. And it's been all kinds of real! I watched Dazed & Confused three times today while I packed, in homage to the past few months. I must have watched that movie over twenty times this summer, and yet, my heart still feels all sorts of heavy every time that keg dries up.

crinoline of smoky burgundy softer than the rain

At least he still looks like Jean-Luc Godard

I imagine there are few feelings that can compare, in terms of alienation, to the one which comes with finding out the guy you lost your virginity to is now engaged with, like, a three year old kid.

"Siberia was the blankness in between, the space through which apocalypse flew."

I finally got around to reading Ian Frazier's two-part piece in the August 3rd/10th issues of the New Yorker, documenting his trip across the Grand Russian Frontier. And it's fucking awesome. Also awesome are his sketches from the trip, which have inspired me to sketch more and write less in my own notebook this fall.

I'll stop believing in you if you stop believing in me

I can think of few more pleasurable situations than riding shotgun in your own car on a rainy DC night as your designated driver high-tails it home through the city after a delightful evening of plastic-cupped martinis and early-'90ssitcomthemesongsingalongs, while this plays over the shitty soundsystem, and the rain pours through the cracked window to splatter the right side of your wasted body while you suck and puff, and the sound of the wetness under the tires whooshes, and the road glistens.


I farking love the Unicorns, always will.

"Sometimes, we're alone."

8/31/09

Drinking PBR and thinking about fly fishing in Waterloo--the abandoned riverside ("The Canal Society of New Jersey") village off Rt. 80. September starts tomorrow. Bailey wades through the thickets. Something purrs in the distance, a low motor. Bailey wears a blue-checked shirt, and red shorts, and earlier today he put air in my tires, and I sat and watched.

We had lots of days like this this summer.

The nats here are pests, but it sure beats the swamplands of Western Siberia.

Word to the holes on my socks and my nose fulla snot

Sike. Where else am I supposed to unload all of this spacejunk corroding away in my brain? Look at these:











With the exception of the half a disposable camera sitting in my trunk and that roll of b/w that I'll forget to develop for the next two months, these are the last photos of the summer. My how it's flown by. My how I'm somewhat relieved. This summer has been very surreal. And, for the most part, really lovely and easy. Trips to the beach, trips to the country, trips to the sea. Drinking, smoking, reading literature. You could write this, but it wouldn't be half as annoyingly great. But it's also been hard, this summer. Living in the south, being primarily unhappy with my existence. I'd say, all and all, it's just been pretty typical.