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It's the first scorcher of pre-summer here in Brooklyn. I'm sitting on the bed, power-snacking on Hershey's Kisses and homemade seltzer.

Mollie is in the shower. We're going to Bushwick's open studio event today. Dozens of artists and venues are opening their studios. Showing their work, having performances and such.

It should be uber-hipsterific. Much drinking of Pabst Blue Ribbon and other low quality headache-inducing brew and other irony-centric shenanigans.

Give me a Newcastle any day. I don't care if it's up to a buck-seventy-five a bottle. It doesn't punish like swill punishes.

I'm wearing one of Mollie's T-shirts. Her "Technics" record player one. It fits so tight yet is far less gay-ey than her gray shirt with the neck cut out.

You might say I look very "Greg Barnett-ish"

mm hm.


In August, Mollie and I are having a "First Annual Bed-Stuy Artist-Open-Studio-Day-on-Monroe-Street-between-Stuyvesant-and-Lewis catty-corner-from-the-drug-house-that-the plain-clothes-NYPD-appear-to-be-targeting-regularly"

Yes. It will be something like the Mar Vista "moon" parties.

Be there bitches.


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