I broke my two river rule AGAIN this weekend.  Here’s a little clue to manipulating the Elly – tell me you’re moving back to Michigan in three weeks time and I’ll follow you everywhere you go in an attempt to cram in as much quality bonding time as humanely possible…even if you go to *shudder* Brooklyn for a photography exhibit.

…even if the exhibit turns out to be incredibly underwhelming.

Who Shot Rock and Roll sounded like it would be magical.  It wasn’t.  In fact, there wasn’t much there that I couldn’t see simply wandering through a Virgin Megastore.  Not that there are any Virgin Megastores to wander through these days.  Nor Tower Records.  Oh how I miss record stores!  The digital sound is bringing me down.  Especially since the external hard drive that houses my 200+GB of music refuses to work despite my repeatedly kicking and cursing the piece of junk.  Fucker.

With a few exceptions, the exhibit consisted almost entirely of album and magazine covers.  Most walls were covered in small prints packed ridiculously close together.  I had to step on at least four hipster douche bags to get a peek at each photo.  Not that there were THAT many photos to see, either.  I’d say there were at least twice as many tattoos in the room as photos.  For every photo of Buddy Holly, there was at least one male emo-looking patron rocking a pair of Elvis Costello glasses.

I did have one major “Aha” moment if you will.  Grace Jones = Lady Gaga.  You’re welcome.

=

Knowing that we would be hopelessly outnumbered and drastically out-hipstered at the museum, Danielle and I decided to grab some lunch before getting our museum on.  We chose an adorable little Greek place because it was a) just around the corner and it was bleeping cold out and b) they had onion rings on the menu.

It was quiet and we were able to score a wide table in the back, bathed in sunlight. We chomped through our falafels with glee and commented on the array of artwork in the restaurant.  Above our table hung the masterpiece you see to your right.  I’m very hopeful that the piece was the product of the proprietor’s offspring.  Otherwise, they have Sloth hidden in the basement and churning out fine art as a side business.

My favorite piece was in the bathroom, hanging above a laminated sign that said “Please do not place paper towels in the toilet.”   I don’t have a picture because I don’t generally bring my camera into the bathroom (you weirdos).  Someone had painted a log cabin on a perfectly square mirror.  To keep it edgy (and therefore Brooklyn worthy) the artist had twisted the square 45 degrees, transforming the shape into a diamond.  (I know, you’re mind has already been blown but stay with me.)  The little log cabin was surrounded by an explosion of the happiest Bob Ross-esque pine trees the world has ever seen.  Just for good measure, white glitter was sprinkled about to simulate snow.  Had I taken my bag in there with me, I would have snatched that bad boy right off the wall and whisked it back to Jersey in my purse.

As I was describing the wondrous work of art to Danielle, the waiter sat a couple clad in all black directly behind us.  She accessorized her ensemble with a small Red Sox clutch.  He accessorized his with a black on black plaid shirt and thick black glasses (see Elvis Costello reference above).  They were in the midst of a heated discussion as they shed their coats and settled down.

“Essentially you’re always rotating in your freshest ten.  That makes sense, right?  Do you follow me?”  He took of his glasses and rubbed his furrowed brow as she looked at him dubiously.

Sports I thought to myself and tried to pay attention to what Danielle was saying.  She had lost her train of thought and was eavesdropping as well.  The gal ordered chocolate milk and pancakes.  He went with something eggy.  We continued to pick at our onion rings and listen shamelessly.  “It’s got to be something sports related,” Danielle confirmed.

Suddenly we heard the girl say, “Think about law school.”  She drained her chocolate milk in one solid gulp and continued, “I went like three weeks without any underwear.”

Poor Danielle’s eyes went wide and she whispered, “I got nothing.”  We both dissolved into giggles and shifted in our seats uncomfortably.  We’re both awfully fond of wearing underwear.

Hipster Douche Bag-ette’s statement drives me to “ew” in so many ways.  One, if you’re going to make a period reference, make a period reference.  Viva the uterus.  Two, she went to law school.  Three, I’m all kinds of worried about her personal hygiene.  Personally, I really like a thin layer of cotton between my lady bits and the debris floating around in my pants.  I’ve seen Rocco clean out his belly button, people.  I know what can accumulate in the dark, moist nooks and crannies of your bod. I’m betting that girl’s vag looks like the lint trap on an old dryer.

That’s why I can’t go to Brooklyn, people.  I am neither trendy nor cutting edge cool.  I have no face piercings and no visible tattoos (yet).  I wear underwear.  Every.  Single.  Day.  Clearly it’s time for me to audition for the next season of Jersey Shore.

At least our trip didn’t end like this.