When I was in college, nothing would have turned me on more than the out-of-work artist. Both his mommy-issue paintings leaning languidly up against the wall of his shitty loft and an off-hand mention that his semi-broken up band once opened for Snow Patrol would have me staying the night. But since I'm only a stone's throw away from the big 2-5, I try to be a little more particular with the company I keep.Yum a-freakin' LUM. This all sounds spectacular. It's a known fact that girls love an array of fancy cheeses; it's basically female crack.
HOWEVER, if I were to now find myself in that loft, I may be able to overlook the broken keyboard, the empty, cracked CD jewel cases littering the floor, and the ratty dog who hasn't been walked in a week once he starts speaking in cheese.
Whisper those sweet nothings of Gruyere and Camembert and I'm yours. Never mind his shitty zine publication; he is Baudelaire, he is Cocteau. His collection of fromage is what the Louvre's collection is to art. When he whips out the Whole Foods crackers and spreads some Port Wine or Boursin with his Sur Le Table knife on those suckers, I can pretend that his art collective is really meeting with Dia next week, or month. Whatever.
I don't even mind if he's baked, as long as the Brie is too. And I can ignore the random dude sleeping on his La-Z-Boy if the Pont-l'Évêque is paired with a nice, deep Bordeaux from the Trader Joe's Wine Shop his brother works at.
Honestly, his Bushwick loft may be Kraft, but we might as well be in Montmarte with the size of his Port Salut.