Monday, November 16, 2009

Party Time

Sartorialist
Here is how to do it: say yes when another woman asks you out on what lacks the pretext of, but will inevitably be like, a date. Say great when she says it is a costume party, that you should dress up.
Here is how to text her out of worry regarding the possibilities available in the dress-up department and suggest you dress up as a 1966 mod and creepy photographer à la Blow Up, knowing full well she is somewhat of an Antonioni nut, though it may be a part-time and certainly private thing. She does not know that you know this, but when she texts back that this is “awesome!” be sure to take it as an attempt at flirting à la Nokia.
Here is how to practice being a creepy photographer by having your 18-55mm Nikkor Vibration Reduction standard zoom and auto-focus lens become one with a cock-eyed, slowly but surely more and more jacked, elderly pug on the S-Bahn. Take several 1/30 shutter speed shots from various angles from your seat directly across from the pooch, and learn how to detract the attention from the creepy photographer by photographing something way creepier. Take a few slow exposure shots when the dog is staring dreamily into the lens, fully erect.
Here is how to waste money on yet another beard and hair trimmer after ruining the battery of the last one half way through a haircut. This is how you do the top and the wrong part of the sides before having die out while still on your head, trying to eat your scalp.
Here is how to pick out a 20 euros shirt at a Mitte thrift-store by asking a 19-year-old girl what she thinks, tight and red? Loose and yellow?
Here’s how to spend 30 Euros on a brand new philips corded and cordless beard trimmer, simply because you don’t trust anyone else, especially not a profesionnal, to give you a trim. Here’s how to do it yourself if you want it done right. Here’s how to waste money without honestly regretting it.
Here’s how to remember to avoid buying Antonioni-style white 501 jeans.
Here’s how to dress up appropriately as a creepy mod that does not look gay: blue 510 skinny jeans, red wide-lappel fitted white and red plaid shirt, Black John Fluevog wingitp boots with tan laces, black and washed Levi’s jean jacket, thrift Saint-Laurent perfecto, camera, trimmer perfected stubble, buzzed head, Nivea men’s aftershave and body lotion. Jean jacket buttons should be set to fitted, not loose, button all the way up to the penultimate one, red and black plaid lambswool scarf rapped Palestine style, though not a keffiyeh. Those are disrespectful and tacky.
Here’s how to walk like you have a knife in your camera hand. This is how you wrap a camera’s Nikon band around your wrist tightly.
Here’s how to look like you don’t care by talking pictures in the Hallesches Tor U-Bahn. This is how you cup your hand around the lens Antonioni style. This is also how to wait for your ‘date’.
Here’s how to follow her lead all while looking careless. Here’s how you walk slightly behind a woman without looking like you are following her lead. Here’s how you walk. Here’s how she knows you are not following.
Here’s how to talk about your horrible ex-roomie whom you are renting from without sounding misogynistic. Make it sound like every disgusting quality you describe is an obvious antithesis to your ‘date’s’ own qualities.
Here’s how to get the German’s at the party to talk to you: do not talk, just sit, enjoy the boredom and drink other people’s alcohol. The German’s will talk to you.
Here’s how to get in on a conversation about Star Wars, which your ‘date’ has not seen, without sounding geeky. She has not seen it even though she has come to the party as Darth Vader’s sister. Here’s how to mention it nicely without alienating her. Here’s how she laughs.
Here’s how to not look overdressed at the ‘Sweet Sin’ themed party by not taking off you black and washed Levi’s jean jacket. Trust me on this.
Here’s how to talk to girls and easily keep their attention by telling them you are in Berlin to write and knowing it to be true. Here’s how you describe what writing a poem feels like. Here’s how you describe money and socializing in contrast with the artist’s life. Here’s how your palm looks when they eat out of it while you feign to look away.
Here’s how to seem worldly by speaking perfect French with an accent they have never heard. Here is how to brush off some nice guy’s idea of Quebec French as something else than actual French. Do it nicely by correcting his syntax like a tutor, not a poet; but still do it.
Here’s how to do something so naturally and disgust yourself in the process: when a girl tries to explain to you how great it is that you are doing what you are doing, really doing it, feign that it is hard to hear, lean in and put your hand on her midriff to better hear. Do this several times without her feigning any type of disdain. Get bored with it.
Here’s how to get to the bathroom while making the click of your boots sound manly. This is how a strut is successful.
Here’s how to notice the shirt you bought for the lecherous occasion is in fact eerily similar, almost identical, to the shirt you wore to your (current) girlfriend’s birthday party no less than eight weeks ago. Here's how to realize you look like the lo-fi version of the Sartorialist. This is how you sigh in the bathroom and make the effort to put a smile on before heading back to midriff girl.
Here’s how to realize she’s moved on to some other dude, and move onto another girl by asking for a full glass of her Vodka. Here’s how she laughs. Here’s how her laugh buries your ‘date’ telling you she is leaving.
Here’s how to become a worst guy over the years: slowly realize no one will ever call you on anything. The only one’s calling you will be admittedly worst guys. Guilt becomes problematically absent.
Here’s how to control yourself by taking pictures of the table and talking to what must be a couple.
Here’s how the girl of the couple tells you they are not a couple by telling you about her apparent boyfriend’s boyfriend, in French.
Here’s how to realize the kitchen floor has been absurdly dirtied by the not-yet-over party, which in turn is how to realize you are too old for this. Grow-up.
Here’s how to leave and have the Tequila guy, who seams to have taken quite a liking to you, follow you. Here’s how to loose him by simply walking in the opposite direction down the street when he runs off. Here’s how to do it alone, take the U-Bahn to Neukolln.
Here’s how to walk home from Neukolln and start to notice a pain in your right ankle that is real and was not there before the party.
Here’s how to fold your shirt neatly as to keep it wrinkle free for next time. Here’s how to hope against a next time.
Here’s how to think you are resisting absolving anything by writing it down. Here’s how to not forget. Here’s how to absolve by making.
Here’s how to self-medicate with raw back-bacon. Here’s how to eat cream cheese and chives with dry, cold and old pizza crust. This is how you make a point of getting into the plastic container’s corners with it.
Here’s how to sleep like the dead, dirty and already pasty. This is how the world remembers you. Like formication in the morning. Here’s how to say never again earnestly without meaning it. Here’s how that works. Here’s the keyboard. Here’s compartmentalizing. Here’s finishing off Blow Up, seeing where it goes.

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