You Live, You Learn.

Or sometimes you don't. The randomness of the act is what's beautiful about it: the chances of patting yourself on the back or smacking your forehead are equal.
This weekend is Black Party Weekend. A phrase so hammered into Chelsea consciousness that you actually start believing it's a real term for something real, like Christmas, or the first day of summer. So... because of my involvement with the party this year I deluded myself into thinking I had finally joined the circle of revelers that had eluded me for years. What I forgot to consider is that going to the Black Party is a all-year-round activity, or I should say identity. You don't just switch gears on saturday evening and go. Infact, despite my valued me-plus-one status, I found nobody to go with. Surprised? No, since the elitist me steer away from Black Party people 364 days a year. Or at least I don't wanna see in public with them. Hmm, let me rephrase that: I don't wanna be seen in well-lit places with them.
Anyhoo... you don't go to the party without your posse and I'm happily posse-less. I wanna go check out the 260 ft banner I designed for Roseland though so probably I'll have something more to report.