under the table and hiding.

Pitchfork and I are not friends.  You see, before I got to college, I was convinced I had excellent taste in music and nothing made me happier than spending my weekend crafting the perfect mixtape (yes, an actual cassette mixtape) for my best friend Dee Dee.  As I approached the final months of high school, I was sure the music education I had received from summer camp/my older sister/midwestern boycrushes would be more than sufficient to make me and my overflowing caselogic a smash hit at college.

Unfortunately, my favorite artists were Dave Matthews, Dispatch, and BNL.

Not long after a wildly unfriendly introduction to east coast music snobbery and the embarrassing realization that I had never even heard of the band playing at our fall concert (WILCO), I realized that my taste in music was, in a word, .A W F U L..  Then, like an unnecessary slap in the face, I met Pitchfork.  Yes, this is exactly what my overwhelming state of utter vulnerability and confusion and wtf-am-i-doing-ness needs right now: another person telling me my shared library really need not be shared after all.  Fuck you, Pitchfork.  Leave me alone!  I’m gonna go get some air and when I get back I hope you’re gone.  And dead.

From that semester on, I avoided Pitchfork like it was my douchey freelance job and passive aggressively got mine when I dedicated my AMST 144b photo essay on hipsters to Dave Matthews.  Ooohhhh Zing!

So now I guess it’s been almost 6 years since I first met Pitchfork and while we are definitely not besties sending each other silly texts and homemade mixtapes, I think we could probably hang out at the same mansion/apartment/shack/house party without one of us (me) leaving in tears.

Because we’re all adults now and being way hotter trumps terrible taste in music anyway.

and i’m gonna be forty.

Holiday Inn. Farmhouse, New England.

I realized this morning I have officially  spent this entire year out of college.  And instead of heading into the new year with a master plan, an all-consuming life project, or even a boring stock answer to the socially awful yet ever-so-popular inquiry of what I want to do with the rest of my post-college life, I’m full up on a whole bunch of these winners:
Men and women can never be friends.
Going out of town was just a fancy way of saying, “I’m gonna get some.”
My job sucked sometimes…but not all the time.
No work Mondays made life awesome.
Free stuff made life awesome.
Bartenders made life awesome.
I went to the gym 215 times.
I’m still really good at looking stuff up.
“Happy Fucking New Years Mother Fuckers.” – CWD

weiners and role models.

Weiner Dog.  Luckyduct, Etsy
Weiner Dog. Luckyduct, Etsy


Yesterday, ilikeyoulikeyou received it’s very first email!  Aww. . .

Actually, it came from my friend Rachel Pfeffer who I was beyond lucky to have lived with during my junior year of college.  Back then, she was a fantastically gifted artist whose pieces and installations left our campus giddy and glowing.   As it turns out, not one bit of that has changed and she’s still leaving trails awesome everywhere she goes.  One visit to her Etsy shop luckyduct or her blog cut paste repeat, and an 8 hour staring contest with my work computer is suddenly turned into a coolkid adventure on the wild and crazy internet.  Uhhhmazing!

Clearly, Rachel has zero fear of pursuing any and all things that excite her (true story: she opened up her own ice cream store during the summer between her freshman and sophomore year of college) and she is still my don’tworry+lovelife+justmakeart role model.  Maybe she would want to help me brainstorm business plans for Penny’s (aka my latest and greatest totally insane pipe dream).  Hmmm . . .

my friend’s band is the new madonna.

Once upon a Time Out New York, my friend Joanna told me that her friends in high school used to force each other to come up with fake [yet totally awesome] band names on the spot.  Though this seemed like quite possibly the most incredible game [ever], I quickly realized I wasn’t very good at it.  My attempts at playing usually went something like this:

Blue Shoes!
3 by 5 Index Cards!
Little Man!

Basically, I just identified whatever was in the room.  A total boner killer of a strategy and definitely not the stuff great band names are made of.  Over this past weekend, however, I think I completely redeemed myself with this one:

My Friend’s Band!

Everyone was very pleased with the possibilities for awesomness in a name like My Friend’s Band and we even started assigning instruments and odd jobs like Lead Kazoo Player and Band Therapist.  Take that, super cool game I used to suck at!  Okay, I’m gonna go blast some of My Friend’s Band’s Greatest Hits and try to start an office coup slash dance party.  Laterz.