Charlie Chaplin

Was at a magazine launch Saturday night filled with a whole bunch of Copenhagen fashion victim types. Models with legs so thin you could stir your drink and enough metrosexuals to fill Enrique Iglesias' pool. Was hunkered down at one of the VIP tables stealing vodka from the oversized drink bowl when I met a young dude that couldn't understand why I live in Denmark. I get this a lot and typically fart around with my answer, but this time I was drunk enough to chat something resembling the truth. The guy, whose name was either Jonas or Christian, invited me to a "teenage alcohol party" and seeing that it was still dark outside, I accepted. We walked for a while, like a pack of Japanese shoppers to a house filled with kids half my age. I sat in the back with a few guys and talked about what a bitch the girlfriend of the guy whose house it was (the brother of my drinking buddy).

I went to go tell the guy about his ladies reputation, but got sidetracked because he looked and dressed exactly like Charlie Chaplin (remember he's a fashion victim). I changed course accordingly and insisted that for the rest of the night he remain silent. Every time he spoke, I shook my finger, explaining fashion is serious and if he's going to go for a certain look, he had to go all the way.