2004-03-06
on crack
Everything here is about food and booze and sex and drugs.
It's this strange fashionista island where everything can be described as something long-forgotten on crack.
The clothing is 1980s promwear . . . on crack.
The music is 1980s Icelandic remakes . . . on crack.
If Iceland were an actor, it�d be Christopher Walken . . . on crack.
Remember the architecture? Shaker . . . on crack.
Everything is just a little strange, a little off, but with this extremely dark and sinister edge.
At a party, if a girl likes a guy, she just grabs his balls.
(I realize this is somewhat of a universal come-hither, but it's a bit forward for my Southern sensibilities.)
And I don't think I've ever had so many random men rub themselves against me as they walk past at a club.
Eeeew.
But there's nothing else to do here.
It's remote. It's isolated. It's sinister. It's expensive (a coffee is about six bucks American).
It's on crack.
betholindo at 12:30 p.m.