This story in the New York Times made me sad. These people are gathering in private residences, with a cash bar, jazz music and sketching nude models . . . sounds cool right? Well, then you read their comments . . .
"The old F. Scott Fitzgerald values are still indigenous at the club," she said, "and these nights are stimulating. Degeneracy and creativity are closely aligned, and this brings to mind the realm of the forbidden."
and
"I think of this as a current version of what Toulouse-Lautrec had in France, a sort of nightclub-cafe-bordello atmosphere," said Helen Stratford, 49, a performance artist, who plays music regularly at the sessions. "You have naked women, great music and intelligent people all in the same room, and it's art. It's a place that fosters creativity."
These people are too clever by half. I feel like saying "Umm, hi! . . get a life and stop trying to live out the "perfect" life you read about in your college lit class."
Seriously, are these people for real? They're adults and they're playing "tea" or "dress up" with their F.Scott Fitzgerald parites or their cheap imitations of Toulouse-Lautrec.
Seriously, what dweebs!
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