1. adios tandem

    In honor of Tandem Bar closing, here’s a piece I wrote in 2011 for a project I never launched that was going to be a vaguely anthropological study of the different kinds of guys you meet at bars in Brooklyn. Take a shot every time there’s an outdated cultural reference! RIP Tandem, I’ll miss your fog machine.

    HOT BABE BROS WHO HANG AT TANDEM BAR

    You arrive in a pack of a minimum of two, maximum of three other ridiculously attractive bros. One of you has a pair of round tortoiseshell frames, the other a baseball cap, flat brim. Dark, slightly ruffled hair of generic Middle Europeasterntino descent. You all are working on sleeves, because it’s the first of the Ten Commandments of Hot Babe Bros Who Hang At Tandem Bar: thou shalt be working towards a full sleeve. You are ordering a Jameson neat, or a Powers shot, with a tallboy on the side for good measure.  Most importantly, you are ridiculously attractive and even though you like girls you will most definitely not speak to anyone but your ridiculously attractive bro posse. This is bro time, a special time when bros can just hang and talk about whatever it is that ridiculously attractive bros bro-out about. Skateboards, Finnish prog from the mid 70s, their girlfriends. It’s a Tuesday night, so you’ll go home early. 1AM. You all had a busy weekend. And Cam’s gotta be at the post house in Nolita at 10am and Matty needs to finish this design for a whisk he’s been working on for his masters program. Later, bro.

     
  2. emmamunger:

    And here is the full size & color ~ ~ ~ PRINTS :3 

     

  3. (Source: Spotify)

     
  4. me, right now, all the time

     
  5. The first thing I did when I got home was raid my old CD stand for my high school staples. The Volvo my parents were so graciously letting me drive only had a tape deck and a CD player. This was a marked improvement on my previous wheels—my old ’96 Mercedes C280 was so analog that the cassette deck was constantly spitting out the tape-to-iPod connector I paid too much for at the Apple Store. But dammit, I loved that car. It wasn’t even technically my car—it was a sixteenth birthday gift that was given to me on the condition of using it to transport my younger brother everywhere. I had to call it the “family vehicle.” An accidental slip of “MY car” to my father’s ears and I was instantly cut off—“You mean the FAMILY vehicle, Eleni.” It got sold after I moved to New York and my mother finally gave up all hope that I’d be coming back west any time soon. But if I was going to have to drive around Sacramento, in that damn Volvo no less, I was going to listen to The Smiths’ “The Queen is Dead” over, and over, and over with the windows down. 

     
  6. in our bachelor faith the book of texts is our sacred scripture