Lucky Number Seven; or The Codeine Cat

To properly achieve the mindset of the hipster one must stomach dozens of PBR's while listening to hours of shitty indie music.  Only then can one don the costume of the Hipster and mingle among their kind without its most experience of members getting suspicious. . . It is best to at least smell like them.  Other necessary items include a pack of cigarettes--the more disgusting the better, for in the hipster mind to go against the grain is choice, to be different from the status-quo means a unique acquired tasted, and if it cannot be obtained it can always be faked--a smug sense of entitlement, glasses (if you don't need them), contacts (if you need glasses), and if at all possible, facial hair strung out like spotty wisps about the neck and face.

If you have these things, and the talent, you too can become an UNDERCOVER HIPSTER, and as I soon found out, being a hipster is usually horrible.

It was outside the bar.  It had been weeks since I had seen the poor fellow get hit by that car.  It was dark, the moths tapped at the street lights with an incessant need to reach the eternal, and though the stars were somewhere out there in the sky they couldn't be seen under all the smog, the bright blinking of their everything snuffed out under so much black.  It was oppressive. The bar was cold.  Outside, he looked at me with a weird expression on his face, only handing it to me to get rid of me.  Of this I am certain.  I took a mouthful and swallowed it.  Black licorice.

I had come upon him with a silly look my face, one I adopt when I know someone is doing something they shouldn't be doing.  He had held the bottle in his left hand and lifted it, a nice swig.  The Codeine Cat.

"You sick?"  I had asked.  He had turned and smiled, his teeth still coated with the stuff.

"No," he had replied.

"Well then, you won't mind if I have some then,"  I had said. . .

It was inside the bar.  I headed in with a head full of codeine not yet tampering with the inner wires, but gearing up to.  I licked my lips and tasted it--truly nasty stuff that looked like tar and in a way tasted like tar.  It was good that I had only had a little, and my stomach thanked me by only tossing for one dizzying moment.  The bar was sad and lonely, or I was feeling sad and lonely.  I don't quite know.  A couple sat in the corner, not talking to one another but instead texting others in a bored sort of way.  The bartender behind the bar looked bored as well--I swear I actually saw her yawn.  Our eyes met, and she sauntered over with the speed and interest of an ancient, bored, blind woman.

"What'll it be?"  She didn't even look at me.

"PBR."

"Yeah, we don't have that," she laughed and walked away.  She went to the couple and spoke to them, and after she was done they were all laughing.  After a good laugh she returned.

"So?"  the bartender asked.

"Coors light," I replied, quite annoyed that she had walked away in the first place.  And what of the pow-wow in the corner?

She left and poured a glass for me.  She placed it on the bar in front of me and smiled.  There were menacing vibes all around me, I felt something horrible coming down the pike, and though I couldn't quite see it it was dark and mean and ugly.  The couple in the corner started a jovial conversation, and when I turned to look at them I found them to be looking directly at me.  Quickly, their heads dropped, and I turned back round to sulk in my beer.  I had been fooled.  A contact had given me the wrong address, the wrong bar, the wrong place and now here I was sitting like an asshole on stage conjured much like a self-degrading clown for the enjoyment of others.

"Excuse me,"  I said.  The bartender sauntered over as before.  The same look at anything but me.

"Yes?"  She asked, looking rather annoyed.  The hair on her lip twitched and her eyes wondered, but seemed angry at what ever they were looking at.  Sometimes they'd glance to the corner and soften.

"Isn't this The Pig's Whistle?"

"Yep.  You're in the right place," she laughed.  "You're in the wrong time, that's all."  She started to turn.

"Slow night?"

"No," she replied, turning back to me.  "I meant you.  Your sort of crowd generally comes in on Thursday nights.  Karaoke night.  I'm just glad I don't work Thursdays."

"My sort of crowd?"  I was confused, but the confusion came with an undercurrent of suspicion.  And anger.

"Yeah. . . you're a hipster aren't you?"

Apparently it was a rhetorical question, or perhaps she was just showing her general disdain for hipsters, for she walked to the other end of the bar, pretending to check the levels on all the bottles.  She looked like someone at the supermarket, perusing the liquor with a sort of longing and idleness that hinted at a need for a change and a general lackadaisical nature.

I had made a grave mistake.  I have spent much time surrounded by hipsters, but never before have I been the only one.  I was glad the bar was so empty, and thought to chug my beer and leave but my ears started to ring and the door to the place was kicked open.  A man stalked through the door, carrying a scent of mischief with him.  It was The Codeine Cat.  He was a tall slender guy, maybe six foot, but with toothpick arms and legs.  His head was square, with a strong jaw and a crew cut that didn't seem to help matters much, less of course he wished to look like a square headed freak.  His eyes were dirty green, perhaps hinting at some inward hatred and his upper lip sprouted whiskers like those of a cat.  He looked at me sideways and strolled his way over to the couple in the corner and sat down.  He said something to them and they laughed.

More menacing vibes.  I had to get out before the flood gates opened or drown forever.  I finished my beer in two gulps and slammed it on the bar.  Hearing it the bartender sauntered over again, but stopped to serve on The Codeine Cat, who had come and intercepted her.  He spoke loudly so that I could hear him. . . .  He sounded like a real smart ass, which in my book meant he wasn't altogether horrible.  He ordered a whiskey on the rocks and turned to me.

"And my friend will have--"

I was confused.  Was he talking to me?

"What are you drinking bud?  PBR?"

"They don't have it,"  I replied.

"Oh so you tried to order it?"  He laughed.  "What is it with you hipsters and PBR?  How 'bout a real beer?"

Normally I never refuse a free drink but I felt he was setting me up for something and politely refused.

"Will you look at that Sandy," he said to the bartender.  "Not even polite enough to take a free drink when offered--say pal, how about an Arrogant Bastard"

"Sure."

She poured me the beer while he waited for his.

"So where do you hail from? . . .  NoHo?"

"No.  But I may be moving there soon."  I was being bullied, and I couldn't defend myself.

"An artist?"

"No."

"What then?"

"A writer."  I replied meekly.

"Oh a writer. . . .  Anything good?"

"I think so."

"Cool, cool.  You own a typewriter?"  A devil's grin formed on his face.

"No, but I want one."  Which was entirely true, and still is.  I don't give a shit if hipsters want them only to be hip--I wanted one for more personal reasons, and the laugh that came from his throat offended me so badly I nearly choked on the beer.

"Woah, be careful bud, its not PBR!"  There was something about the way he said PBR that made me hate him immediately.  "Look Sally, his taste is so bad he can't even stomach the good stuff!"

They laughed openly as she handed him his drink.

"Well, see yah buddy."

"Thanks."

I had been raped, and for the price of an eight dollar beer.  He left chuckling, no doubt to give his friends in the corner the details blow for blow.  I was angry, but it soon dissipated.  After all, it was not me they were making fun of, but a hipster, and how many times had I been on that side of the fence?  Too many times to count.  This new found reality came with the realization that the codeine was also kicking in.  There was a warmth within me that didn't come from light beer, and the world was beginning to look soft and warm at the edges.  The muscles in my arms seemed to be made of soft cotton, and though I still had some sort of cognizant thought, clearly someone else was at the reins, playing hide and seek with my brain.  The lights were warm, but the people were cold. No--that was the door opening and with the cold came more people; each with a look of disapproval more discouraging the next.  All come to have a good laugh at my expense.  Or so it seemed.

The bodies crowded in, the mass growing denser as the night went on.  They were loud, as bar people often are (especially with some drink in them), but above them all was the cackling of The Codeine Cat.  He prowled around, as curious as ever, looking at the people all around him straight in their faces, as if with one look he could tell everything about them.  He would scoff and move on to the next one as suddenly as he came to judge the next soul seen the in the face of his next victim.  He consciously avoided me during these excursions, like he was done with me, or as if there wasn't anything left to decipher.

I had gone through many beers, more than I had intended on.  Before I knew it it was last call, those two dreadful words coming from the bartenders lips that always sound especially cruel and unfair after a good drinking bout.  The last of the crowd shuffled out the door, some lingering longer than the others, and there still, was The Codeine Cat.  He cackled as always, and stumbled out the door and swung himself round a NO PARKING street sign.

"I'm singing in the rain," he sang.  "Just singing in the rain."  Even though there was no rain.

It was a cold night the warmth of the codeine had long since wrong off.  A hot dog vendor put his franks on and filled the night with beautiful smells and the sounds of beautiful good.  I was quite drunk to be thinking any of it was beautiful; it was a scene played out outside of lots of bars.  I was hungry.

The Codeine Cat looked on me then for the first time since he walked into the bar.  He smiled codeine teeth at me and blinked boozy, heavy eyes as he came closer and said:

"No hard feelings, right?"

I didn't say anything.  I just looked at him.

"Guess you're wondering why I ought you a drink, huh?  Well.  Look.  I lost a bet."

"What bet?"

"Nothing, just a bet."  The Cheshire Cat in Alice and Wonderland would have been envious of the smile he gave me.

"No, what bet?"

"Just this bet my friends and I have.  And we bet on the next person to walk in the bar.  Loser has to buy 'em a drink."

"So you lost?"  The cigarette in my hand had gone out--a real shame--as I thought of putting it out in one of his cat eyes.

"No, that's the thing.  I won."  He laughed.  "My friends consider me a real moocher.  I never pay for anything.  That's what they say.  So for laughs I said I'll buy the drink if a hipster walks in, thinking there would be no way in Hell a hipster would walk through those doors," he laughed, whiskey and whiskers. "We waited for so long I had to leave for medicine.  Where you found me."

He looked at me.

"Then you walked in," a smile spread across his face, lips curling with the steaming hiss of disdain. "Hilarious, aint it?"

He let out an enormous burst of laughter.  I too started to laugh.  It surprised him, as from his demeanor he was quite used to laughing at other people's expense (probably many hipsters), but never before had the object of his ridicule shared his laughter.  He seemed almost offended, as if I had committed some grave assault on his person, or attacked him manhood.

"And you don't often win, now do you?"  I asked.

"No," he chuckled, the offense having parted.  "No, I don't suppose I do.  That is funny."

"Yeah,"  I grabbed his shoulder as if the laughter was too great to hold up posture.  "So you picked a hipster, cause you didn't wanna pay, you broke ass."

The laughter swelled now between us, a couple of laughing drunkards out of the street--perfect fodder for some bored cop on a slow night.

"Great ain it?"  He coughed up between chuckles.

"Sure is, you know why?"

"No, why?"

"I'm not even a hipster!"

The mustache came off, and the laughter increased between us.  It started off slow, but soon The Codeine Cat was echoing my laughter as if he had been in on the thing all along; had known everything from the very start and was but another player in a rather private joke made even more ripe because of its exclusivity. We laughed till it hurt, till it was a real scene for all those around us.

Then came silence.

Realization had hit The Codeine Cat.

"Hey," his face contorted back to stupidity.  "Wait--what?"

"DAAAATS RIGHHHT. . ."

I nodded to him and parted down the street.  He had a look on his face that was quite satisfying.  For once, he was the joke, and as I left The Codeine Cat had but a frown.

CASE #006: The Cha-Cha and The Dolphin Chick

To properly achieve the mindset of the hipster one must stomach dozens of PBR's while listening to hours of shitty indie music.  Only then can one don the costume of the Hipster and mingle among their kind without its most experience of members getting suspicious. . . It is best to at least smell like them.  Other necessary items include a pack of cigarettes--the more disgusting the better, for in the hipster mind to go against the grain is choice, to be different from the status-quo means a unique acquired tasted, and if it cannot be obtained it can always be faked--a smug sense of entitlement, glasses (if you don't need them), contacts (if you need glasses), and if at all possible, facial hair strung out like spotty wisps about the neck and face.

If you have these things, and the talent, you too can become an UNDERCOVER HIPSTER, and as I soon found out, death is a horrible thing.

CASE #006:  The Cha-Cha and The Dolphin Chick

You can hear happiness staggering on down the street,

Footprints dressed in red
And the wind whispers Cha-Cha

The Cha-Cha would look much like the restaurant Joe Pesci set fire to in The Goodfellas--with the cheap tiki theme of bamboo bars and stools, strung up cheap lights (for ambiance), and husked roofs--that is if it were not for the hipster element.  It is responsible for such artifacts festooned about the room as Dia De Los Muertos skulls and skeletons, OBEY stickers, retro Pac-Man machines, vending machines filled with condoms and SPAM products, a photo booth for all the fond memories, fluffy gondola balls, sombreros, Foosball tables, tacked up album covers, faux paintings done up to look like masterpieces of pirate ships and women wearing pirate hats with their tits hanging out, fake flowers speared in immortality, a disco ball, Chinese hand fans spread exposed, luchadore posters, clown pictures, and simple but always festive Christmas lights.

Here's the part where I would include a clip from Goodfellas, but seeing as how YouTube is a little bitch, it no longer allows the embedding of videos that include copyrighted material. 

But don't get me wrong, that's just the inside. . . The outside looks normal enough--like any other place--with a simple LOUNGE sign outside and a dull drab color painted on the exterior walls.  Its a ploy that makes the inside even more menacing.  You may think, upon first entering you are embarking upon just another bar, but you would be dead wrong.

It's necessary to give your mind a moment to adjust.

I too, had to, the moment I first entered the Cha-Cha.  It was a damn fine Summer night, one of those nights where it's warm and comfortable almost like Hawaii in its best season.  It was far too fine a night to spend indoors so I went to the Cha-Cha.  It was referred to me by a friend who described it as follows:

"Its hipster heaven--(a pause here)--PBR on tap."

Enough of an endorsement for me, upon entering I felt much like a poor kid at Disneyland.  I knew not what good thing I had done to deserve such a trip to such a reputable place known to be a real play land, but I felt ever grateful.  There were treasures and all kinds of fun everywhere, complete with lots of idiots walking around in silly costumes.  I scanned the room and quite frankly didn't know where to start, for the Cha-Cha still remains to this day the most retarded place I've ever been; more retarded than that place with the DJ's who just hook up their iPods and walk around expecting the same amount of respect a real DJ would ask for, and even more retarded than that bar that smells like mold and features a giant water slide in the middle of it.

I made my way to the bar, taking particular notice of one fellow sitting off by himself in the corner, with no beer by his side.  Only a bottle of water.  I thought him to be a total pussy for drinking something that should only come out of the hose, especially while in a bar, but soon forgot about it and ordered a PBR for a dollar fifty.  Even at such a paltry sum I felt it too much, but then again, I dread PBR and feel that people should be paid just to consume it.  To enjoy it is a whole other fee.  It did help with blending in with the current scene that was all around me, and what a scene it was.  I turned to survey it all, and found that even more Disney characters had shuffled on in to be hip and utterly full of shit.  There was the Beast, minus his Beauty--this fat hairy man with a lazy eye hidden under big bushy eyebrows, a massive hairy beard, and yellowed teeth that seemed dripping with drool; Dumbo with big flat ears flopping out at the sides of his face, big enough to support the Coke bottle glasses he had attached to his face; a modern Quasi Moto, looking distraught without his bell to ring; Jafar, complete with some strange head wrapping and a snarled look upon his face; and two of the Seven Dwarfs (Sneezy and Dopey).

There was a problem though.  There was no place to sit.  I could have easily stood around watching the lumberjack and his lover play Foosball, or wedged myself between the photo booth and a table, or waded through the sea of human bodies, but I wasn't in the mood for too much strain, and instead my eyes fell once again upon the man sitting all by himself in a booth with a bottle of water.  He looked sort of dejected and uninterested in everything that was going on around him, as if at any moment he was going to get up and leave.  I made my way over and plopped myself in the booth, sitting opposite him.  I lifted the beer to my lips and took a swig, then placed it gently upon the table.

"Where's your beer?"  I asked.

"PBR makes me sick."  He said, after eyeing my like a kid in a playroom that wants only to be left alone.

"I thought that was its purpose."

"Yeah.  Maybe.  They all sure seem to love it."  He moved his hand and gave a general sweep of the place.

"They?  So you're not a hipster?"  I asked.

He took one look at me and said:

"Oh and you are?"

"You first."

"Nope.  Tried.  But they don't want me."

"Me neither."

There was a moment of understanding there, between two outcasts in a world full of people who seemed to gel with one another.  He was a little older than me, maybe twenty five, with a face that seemed stubborn when trying to grow facial hair.  He looked like a hipster I suppose, but there was a look in his eyes that seemed to be missing that same sort of self-righteousness that so many of them possessed.  He looked down at his water as one looks at incriminating evidence.  Without his hipster gear he was just another human being, and the hipsters in their cruel and callous ways had seen through his threads and had deemed him as such.  A mere mortal.  I wondered why they couldn't accept him, but never second guessed me, perhaps the biggest phony in the whole damn place.      

"You know you're the first to notice."  I said.

"You kidding me?  That mustache of yours is fake as shit."  He pointed at it, laughing.

We talked some more, about real, non-hipster shit.  He seemed an alright dude, and although we often had to yell at each other over the din, I didn't totally hate him, which says a lot considering he found alcohol to be detestable and all around stupid for the soul as well as the body.  The area around us was thinning, a massive group of maybe twelve hipsters had shown up together, and in turn left together, perhaps to attend some other sort of orgy involving plenty of genital copulation.  I left this fellow, explaining that I had to further take in the scene and learn even more about these horrible creatures that neither of us could truly comprehend.

It's strange going to a trendy bar by oneself.  One will often find it's hard not to look like a real creeper.  You have to force your way into conversations and lean in from the outside of groups like a truly lonely bastard just looking for someone to talk to.  At dive bars, it's entirely different of course, especially during the day--it's almost expected that you come alone to drink away your sorrows and flirt with the ugly barmaid, but at these trendy places it's entirely different.  It's playtime, and all the kids are out.  I wasn't feeling drunk enough to bother anyone or shoot the shit, so I took in the place a little more.  It really was annoying; looking at it you're led to believe the place is decorated by someone terribly hip, and in true hipster fashion its thrown right in your face with the pretentiousness of a person that cares very little what the status quo has to say about the subject (or anyone with sense for that matter).  I found myself staring into the eyes of a majestic unicorn, which had been painted in front of a fantastical backdrop and placed up on the wall with all the other bullshit.  It looked more like the cover of a trashy love novel than anything else, missing only a bare-chested Fabio placed riding atop the mystical beast.  It was the stupidest thing I had ever seen, a sad example that an arts degree doesn't always equate to art, but instead often makes a shitty artist an even shittier one due to too much theory and not enough substance.  I wondered what sort of asshole would paint such a thing, and then what sort of asshole would buy it and put it up.  If anything, the latter was certainly a bigger one than the former.

"Oh do you like my art?"  A voice said.  A woman's voice.

"Huh?" Turning I saw an aging chick in her late twenties.  She had a ring through her nose like a bull.  There was more to her, but I couldn't get past the stupid ring.  I kept staring at it.

"My art."  She repeated.  "The unicorn."

"Yeah, it's great."  A total lie.

"Unicorns," she smiled at the very thought of them "I think they're real, only no one ever sees them because they don't believe in them.  You know."

I nodded, forgetting the fact that though she adamantly believed in them, had probably never seen one herself, less it be in a dream, or drug induced hallucination, or madness induced hallucination.  From the looks of her, they were all plausible.

"Hey you wanna hang with us?  Come on."  I followed her, my head ringing.  I had hit the jackpot--the dumbest hipster in the place had fallen into my lap, and was sure to bring me to even more of them.  After all, birds of a feather flock together.  She led me to a table that could hardly be seen under all of the glasses.  There were people huddled all around it, each one looking more hip than the next.  She introduced me to all of them, and had I been listening I probably would be able to list them here, but alas I was not.

They talked a lot about art, stuff I knew nothing about.  I didn't pretend to know what they were talking about, but made it seem like I was really interested in what it was they were saying.  For the most part I just cut them out and listened to the noises all around us.  I did though, catch some snippets:

"Its all about gestalt," one said.  The others all nodded and I nodded too.

"Yeah, the less the better, I always say," a chick piped in.  I know not whether she actually said it all the time, but I was certain she had not applied this philosophy to her use of perfume; she reeked of it, even over all the booze and cigarette smoke.

"What about Warhol?"  Another asked.

"What about Warhol?  Every asshole who knows nothing about art knows about Warhol."  A chick replied. "In fact, get out of here."

People at the table started laughing.

"No seriously.  Get out of here."  She said.  She was adamant and mean.  The offending hipster got up dejectedly and left, no longer deemed hip enough to be a part of the conversation.  The unicorn painter was silent the whole time, in a real creepy way.  One could even say she looked totally uninterested in the whole situation.

Pointillism, surrealism, naturalism, they were all a bunch of words they threw around to impress as the conversation grew more and more heated.  I felt foolish sitting there nodding away like it was all so interesting, if only to hide my intense boredom and offend some die hard wanna-be artist.  They kept going and going and going, talking like characters in a Jack Kerouac novel, full of life and speed and bullshit, and yet all the while the Unicorn Painter kept quiet.  Her face seemed set in a smile; porcelain, her ears seeming not to hear, as if she were day dreaming about her beloved unicorns.  Still the others kicked up their discussion, still more terms and theory.  I was drowning in the stuff.  They'd discuss and grow heated, and quiet down to all sip their beers like race cars refueling and then they would all start up again with a tremendous sound louder than before.  Sometimes someone would have had too much and just flip out and storm out the door.  They'd come back cooled down and smelling of cigarette smoke.

. . . And still the Unicorn Painter kept quiet. . . .Even when one of her friends who looked like he was trying awfully hard to look just like Pablo Picasso got heated and slammed the table causing a few glasses to fall and break upon the floor she kept quiet, locked in some sort of coma with her eyes open. . . .Even when another outburst caused beer to spill on her, she simply smiled and looked blindly down at her dress.

I looked at her, and suddenly her eyes blinked clear and she was staring right at me.  It was frightening.

"Come on," she said.  Her icy grip ran down my back.  She got up and I followed her.  She entered the ladies room and I paused but she soon returned and pulled me in.

There were no other women in the bathroom.  I smiled, as who doesn't like happy endings?  But then she turned around and lifted up her shirt rather unceremoniously.

"You like it?"  She asked, looking at me over her shoulder.

I found myself once again staring into the cold black eyes of a unicorn.  It too was atop a fantastical landscape though it seemed to be running out of her ass crack.  Also, an amateur had added a rainbow arching over the beast, unlike her painting.  She seemed to have read my mind, or maybe I just have an honest face:

"The rainbow I had first.  But I tired of it, and had the unicorn added.  I think it looks nice.  Its familiar isn't it?"  She smiled.  "You like it?"

I didn't know what to say.  I have seen some dumb tattoos in my day, but this one took the cake.  Not only did she used to have a rainbow tramp stamp, but she had added upon it, with an image even more disgusting.  She might as well have tattooed a warning over her ass, something like 'THIS PERSON ISN'T MENTALLY STABLE.'  I started to back away.

"So what, you don't want me to blow you?"

"Well. . ."  I thought about it, and she got to her knees, but then a torrent of vomit shot out of her mouth and all over the floor.  It stank and pooled around her, all over her shirt and jeans.  I promptly left, half-disgusted half amused.

I stormed through the bar, parting the hipsters like so much water.  By the time I got to the outside door I heard her screaming, and with the cold air and suction of the door it was drawn silent, a blown out candle.  The cold air rejuvenated me, along with the night, for I knew I had just avoided a horrible situation and an awkward morning.  You've got to worry about unicorn chicks.  Most of them grew up horse and pony dykes who just couldn't take the real world, and succumbed to fantasy.  I lit in a cigarette and sucked in death, unaware that it was closer than I perceived.  There were hipsters out there, mingling about and smoking cigarettes just as I was.

A car zoomed down the street at great speed.  Everyone's head turned in an instant to watch it, and in an instant we all saw the young man in front of it crossing the street.  The car hit him, and he tumbled back several feet, to lie in the street in a puddle of his own blood.  It all pooled up around him, and those around me took to their phones to Tweet things like "just saw the worst accident ever, live."  As I drew near I found it to be the young man who had nursed a water all night.  He looked at me with dead fish eyes, his mouth spitting blood and his fingers pointed up towards the stars.  Not long after, he stopped moving, lying there in the streets, dead.

In a rage I ran back to the bar, too stupid to think of anything but revenge and hatred.  He had tried to be apart of them, and like callus bastards the had shunned him, even in death.  It was just another moment for self fame on the internet; look at the heart ache I witness; shower pity upon me now.  I hit the sidewalk and punched the nearest hipster I could find, the blow taking him and his cell phone to the floor.  I stomped him a bit, before a fist came out at me from my left.  I hit the floor and felt the kicks hit my stomach and legs.

I let out an awkward cry, for myself as well as man. . . And then came darkness.

Flashes of boobs. . . and darkness.

CASE #005: The Hipster Chick

To properly achieve the mindset of the hipster one must stomach dozens of PBR's while listening to hours of shitty indie music.  Only then can one don the costume of the Hipster and mingle among their kind without its most experience of members getting suspicious. . . It is best to at least smell like them.  Other necessary items include a pack of cigarettes--the more disgusting the better, for in the hipster mind to go against the grain is choice, to be different from the status-quo means a unique acquired tasted, and if it cannot be obtained it can always be faked--a smug sense of entitlement, glasses (if you don't need them), contacts (if you need glasses), and if at all possible, facial hair strung out like spotty wisps about the neck and face.

If you have these things, and the talent, you too can become an UNDERCOVER HIPSTER, and as I soon found out, in the hipster world, idiocy applies to both sexes. . . 

Case #005:  The Hipster Chick

Before I called her I felt the need to drink some beer.  When I felt boozed up enough I called her, I made every effort to seem desperate.  Hipster chicks dig that sort of shit--they like to think its because you've endured so much and faced much prejudice from the mass of callus people deemed unhip that you have no other choice than to seek some love.  They like being saving graces.  I learned her name to be Ethel, a horrible name which she had no other choice than to love because it was so unhip it was hip.  She was quite busy she said, as she was in the middle of some macroni sculpture project but would make time for me on Friday.  Oh gee, well thanks a lot Ethel, its nice when a girl gives out handouts, especially when she lets you that she's doing you a favor for even being seen with her.

On Friday I felt quite horrible, and the day seemed to agree with me.  There were dark grey clouds in the sky rallying for a little rain.  They remained that way all day, scarcely letting the sun come out to play. When the time came I readied myself in my hipster gear.  The place we were to visit was called The Crab Pot, a restaurant/bar said to be very hip.

When I arrived she was not there, a circumstance I should have foreseen, as its much cooler to arrive late than on time--God forbid you show up early.  While I waited I took in the place, as Ethel had suggested it and I had never been before, nor even heard of it.  I could see why she picked the place, it was a veritable hipsters nest teeming with tremendously hip activity.  The majority of the people there I assumed came for the atmosphere--all the dining tables were different, with mismatching chairs, stools, stumps, rocks, and other strange things manipulated into torturous furniture.  Overhead, planets hung from the rafters and mingled with rockets and stuffed birds.  There were also dangling wooden crabs in the mix, that pinched at whales spouting water and schools of fish.  I know not what this sort of decor could be called, though it seemed as if someone was going for a theme, but didn't quite know the true meaning of the word; instead mixing a bunch of shit in a conglomeration of douchery that boggled the mind and offended the eyes.  Other people actually liked it though, as I sat waiting like a jack ass I heard man people remarking how pleasing they found it all was.

I talked a lot of shit in my head, looked at the menu (Little Mermaid Crab Cakes, and Enchantment Under The Sea Shrimp Platter were just a few of the retarded names dolled out to dishes in an effort to seem cool) and stared at one particular server who had a massive gnarly beard hanging from his face like he was going for the wizard look (he succeeded in this endeavor, in my opinion).  I figured he would be our server, my luck being what it was, and imagined all the facial hair I'd have in my food on account of it.  Finally she arrived, looking not much unlike she did when I first met her.  She wore her hair up, had some shade of lipstick on that she probably bought only because the name of it sounded funny to her, and brown eyes set under a heavy brow.  I wouldn't go so far as to say she was ugly, as I'm no gem myself, but she wasn't what one could consider a classic beauty.  The ugliest things about her were her vanity and nasally voice; which one I loathe the least I have yet to decide.

We sat at a green oak table, surrounded by metal chairs and tree stumps.  She made herself quite comfortable, and looked all along the ceiling counting crabs and planets; looked at her damn iPhone; looked at all the other hipsters; looked at her fingers nails; looked at her self in a compact mirror; looked everywhere and at everyone but me.  She ordered some hip sounding drink I had never heard of before, while I ordered a simple beer.  When they arrived she sipped hers and finally looked at me.

"So what did you do to Nathaniel?"  She asked.

"Nothing."  I said, feeling a little like I was being interrogated.

"No.  You did something.  I know Nathaniel cannot handle his drink.  Can you handle your drink?  You did something.  He hasn't threatened to rape someone in a long while.  He only does that when someone really gets him.  So you got him alright.  What did you do?"

"Did he get raped?"

"Who?"

"The last guy he threatened to rape.  I mean does he really rape people?  He looks like the type."

"Oh.  No.  Well, if you consider having a bike stolen getting raped, then yes.  But--"

"A bike?"

"Yeah a bicycle.  A real nice one too.  I don't know what it was called, but it was nice.  My brother has a bike.  A nice one.  I've ridden bikes before too.  All kinds of bikes.  Tricycles are funny, unicycles even funnier.  But I know all about that, what I don't know is--"

The waiter came up, with his massive beard, and she ordered a seafood platter thing, and I a steak.  By now she was quite flustered by her own curiosity, and couldn't quite sit still.

"So?"  She asked.  "And why did you order a steak at a seafood restaurant, that's sooo stupid."

"So what?"  I asked cruelly.  "I always get steak and lobster at Sizzler.  You know Sizzler?"  She cringed, as most people do when I mention Sizzler, but the truth is Sizzler is a place you go when you don't want to be bothered.  You can even show up high and no one says anything.  Believe me it makes for a good time, and the food isn't as horrible as people assume; I've had shittier steaks at Outback Steakhouse.

"Yeah I know it.  But that's not what I want to know.  What did you do?"  She nearly burst out of her seat saying it, and had it not been so loud in the restaurant, I'm certain it would have made a scene.

"He tried to get me on Great Expectations.  I wouldn't let him.  People who base their superiority on their knowledge being far more vast than anyone else's crumble when you prove they aren't omnipotent."  I drank some beer.  "I didn't curse him out or anything, or insult his mother, or any of that.  Though I easily could have."

"How disappointing.  I thought--"  she looked quite depressed, her funny colored lips curled into a frown that so impressed upon me their sadness I felt ashamed I hadn't decked the guy.

"Yes?"

"Nothing."

She was rather cold after that, until dinner came which seemed to liven her up.  I myself was on my fourth beer and had a nice high going that allowed me to enjoy my meal and ignore her.  She started talking about herself in great detail that I won't bore the reader with by repeating, though I will provide a rubric: she was born in Illinois, liked a lot of bands I had never heard of, had a cousin who once threw up all over her, was in theater club in high school, had tattoos of various happy faced animals, enjoyed David Lynch in a fanatical manner, and had a love for studded belts that she could never shed.  I was well into my steak (which was great by the way) when she got the idea that after dinner we should go back to The Fox and Fiddle.  I felt it a bad idea.

"What?"  She was quite upset suddenly, but only for an instant.  Her lips then turned into a sly smile.  "I was hoping for a round two."

"There will be no round two.  That wouldn't be a fight.  Four on one?  More like a brawl.  And I wouldn't win."

"Oh I don't care who wins."

I scoffed.

"Well I do."

"How bout if you go, I'll let you sleep with me."

I couldn't help but laugh.  She didn't expect this response, and flashed that wretched frown of hers once again.

"Did you ever think that after such a fight I wouldn't be able to do anything?  Did you think that perhaps--just maybe you aren't worth fighting for?"

"Well if you're going to be rude. . ."

"Well if you're going to be stupid. . ."

She gave me an evil glare.  She sat across the table with evil intentions, the knife in her hand looking less like an eating utensil and more like a deadly weapon.

"You just think you're smart because you know of all those books from like four-hundred years ago."

"Four-hundred years ago?  Care to make another guess my dear?"  I asked.

"You're a real asshole you know that?!  I'm not your dear!  I'm not your anything!  And never will be!  You sit here, as I suppose you sit everywhere--looking down on everyone and talking shit.  Acting like you're better than everyone else yet you still hang around them, loathing them and everything about them.  Why don't you just leave?  Why don't you find people you actually like, and who are as smart as you?  As smart as you think you are?  My guess is you can't find any of your own friends.  So you just hang out with people and are mean and jealous because they can make real friends and all of that.  Can live social lives.  Can be other things other than a self-righteous asshole that doesn't like anyone or anything."

This made me think a little, but she had to ruin it, as she then said:

"You know what you are?"  She asked rather matter of fact, like there was no use in asking in the first place.  "A fucking hater. . . and I can't stand fucking haters."

"A real epidemic as of late."

"Yeah you're probably some cyber bully too.  You pick on little kids?"

"I pick on everyone. . ."

"Oh, so you are one?"

"A what?"  I asked.  "A cyber bully?  Maybe.  Maybe not.  May I remind you though--" she pulled out her iPhone at this point, and checked up on the Almighty Facebook. "May I remind you we are not in cyber space.  Though it appears these days cyber space and reality are becoming one in the same.  A horrible thought."  So horrible in fact I finished my beer upon its surfacing.

She slammed her phone on the table (think not this to be hyperbole, she really slammed the damn thing) and looked at me with ugly eyes to match her ugly face.  In my imagination I saw steam coming from her nostrils.

"You really are an ass aren't you?  I know we aren't in cyberspace.  A bully is a bully.  You're full of shit."

I thought to inform her of being quite full of shit herself, but instead replied:

"An ass, a bully, or full of shit.  Which one is it?"

"All three!"  She said with passion.  She grabbed her phone and left.  Suddenly the room seemed more peaceful.  The waiter came up then and asked if I would like the check.  I told him yes, though I had very little money to speak of and thought of all the things I would much rather spend it on: namely, beer.  So as the waiter went off to print up the check, I pulled out my pack and lit up a cigarette right in the middle of the restaurant/bar.  I did this all very casually, and got a few puffs and wild stares in before another waiter came up to me.

"Sir, you can't smoke inside."

"I know," I replied, again rather casually.

"Sir, you have to smoke outside."

"I know."

"Sir...?"

"I know, I know." I said quite annoyed and swatted him away with my hand as if he were a fly.

The next thing I remember was a pair of large gorilla hands grabbing me by the shoulders and pulling me out of my seat, all in one motion.  My wrist was then seized with great strength, clenching tighter and tighter until I let go of the cigarette.  It fell on the table and was put out with a glass of water, as if it were a bomb lit by a fuse.  I was then chucked out the door and encouraged never to come back.  I never saw the beast with gorllia hands that tossed me out, and still to this day I believe The Crab Pot has a gorilla for a bouncer. . .

CASE #004: The Charles Dickens Hipster

To properly achieve the mindset of the hipster one must stomach dozens of PBR's while listening to hours of shitty indie music.  Only then can one don the costume of the Hipster and mingle among their kind without its most experienced of members getting suspicious. . .  It is best to at least smell like them. Other necessary items include a pack of cigarettes--the more disgusting the better, for in the hipster mind to go against the grain is choice, to be different from the status-quo means a unique acquired taste, and if it cannot be obtained it can always be faked--a smug sense of entitlement, glasses (if don't need them), contacts (if you need glasses), and if at all possible, facial hair strung out like spotty wisps about the neck and face.

If you have these things, and the talent, you too can become an UNDERCOVER HIPSTER, and as I soon found out, literature can be a horrible thing indeed, when in the wrong hands. . .

Case #004:  The Charles Dickens Hipster

Though at great length we have mentioned the hipster's adoration for music, his love is not singular and often he strays into many of art's other forms.  It appears that under the douchey clothes and retarded ideas, there is indeed a human there after all.  The hipster's eyes are too so changed by all art and as such are too guilty of that time honored tradition of conjuring up a facade of superiority through the use of bogus bullshit knowledge.  They use it well, making for a calamity of many bored listeners all around, and has ruined very, very, very many hip parties.  It is considered very unhip to challenge another's interpretation of art (or any other hipster, for that matter) less one wish to risk a calamity far worse than death: to be labeled with that pussy drying label of UNCOOL.

I mention all of this, for I uncovered one such hipster the other day.  The Fox and the Fiddle is a bar set in the middle of Los Angeles, with an old European feel maintained with a selection of many European beers, and male servers that are forced to wear kilts.  It is gated off from the street, and upon walking through the gates into the courtyard, one feels immediately like they are entering into another world.  Its courtyard is most popular, and furnished with seating for nearly a hundred people, and they are always full.  Another popular section is a fountain, which many people sit around and has been a watery grave for many beers. Outside, you can smoke, and as such is often a loud smoking din, filled with many a hipster.  Upon entering I found a prominent group of hipsters clustered around the fountain, one of them already well into his drink and taking moments to look into the fountain to spit, or laugh, or toss in bar napkins.  They are loud and boisterous, and walking past them into the bar, I made a mental note of their location and numbers.  I ordered myself a pint at the bar, after that usual waiting game with the bartender.  The place was packed, as usual, and as such I waited for nearly 5 minutes to get my brew.  I also purchased a pack of cigarettes for the scandalous price of ten dollars, but felt it would be worth it if the fellows outside had any good material worth writing about.

Returning to the patio I was hit with a scene of people of advancing years throwing caution to the wind and drinking themselves silly.  It is a refreshing thing to see for any alcoholic, for in that moment they can feel less guilt for their own shortcomings in a world where apparently everyone gets drunk.  There were people in all different stage of drink, some eating a late dinner from steaming plates of fine smelling foods, and even one drunk girl already staggering around.  It was a fine scene indeed.

The hipsters were still around the fountain--they had taken a table and pushed it up against it, and when their party had grown too large, they had simply taken to sitting upon the edge of the fountain. Management seemed not to mind, for their party was nearly fifteen strong, and had ordered much food and drink, as proven by the stacks of glasses and half finished plates on their table.  I made my way toward the group looking for an opening.  There were many smoking cigarettes, so I took out my fresh pack and felt around my pockets as if I were looking for a lighter.  I put the cigarette in my mouth and continued to feign searching as I walked.  As I drew near, one of the hipsters eyed me, and after a quick appraisal of my garb decided I was one of them and out in my path shot an arm at the end of which a hand clutched a lit lighter.

"Here," he said.  It was a testament both to a hipster's kindness amongst their own kind, and my disguise.  I lit my cigarette and thanked him, taking a spot up on the ledge of the fountain.  I sat and listened for awhile, pretending to be quite interested in my cigarette.  It didn't burn quite as I liked it to, so I adjusted the burn with my finger nail and frowned.  It was a cold night, for California, and as I gazed up into the sky there was an unusual amount of stars, the smog had lifted on a beautiful night, and here I was in this rotten scene pretending to be a hipster.

. . .a scene of people of advancing years throwing caution to the wind and drinking themselves silly. . . 

I know not, even now, why I even pursued this endeavor, less it be for a want to write.  I thought of oh so many better ways to write--far more legitimate ways, and felt it was all just another case of me fooling myself.  No writer writes about such foolish things.  No writer writes in the 21st century--not in the traditional sense, because no one reads anymore anyway.  It was depressing, and never before have I so enjoyed a deadly cigarette.  I was beginning to feel like a real fink; a loser; a no one; when at my side I heard a voice all too familiar:

"J. Wood?!  What the fuck are you wearing?  Its not Halloween yet!"  It was said with such emotion I turned my head in shock, and noticed the other hipsters did too.  The voice belonged to this really funny guy I know, who has a way of telling jokes out of the side of his mouth with his body half turned away from you, as if he had developed this style of delivering jokes as a kid in the classroom, and had to thus be sly about it.  "Where have you been?  I haven't seen you around."

"Nowhere."  I said plainly "You know me."

"I thought I did, what's with the hipster gear?"  He asked loud enough for the others to notice.  They were beginning to take notice of our conversation.  I felt the need to say something to him, so I leaned in and said softly:

"Look, man," I whispered.  "I'm trolling these hipster fucks, and you're about to blow my fucking cover."

To this he smiled, and leaning in said:

"What's the angle?  You gonna fuck one of their girlfriends?  If so lemme get in on this."

"No!"  I said, and then recovering whispered, "They'll never believe it.  Sure maybe we'll pull it off. . . but who are you meeting here?  Who are you here with?  Everyone else will give us away; no hipster keeps more sane friends than they do hipster friends.  You must go. . ."

He thought for awhile, and then smiled.  He agreed with me and soon left.  Being a member of The Nothing Generation I knew he would respect my "trolling" and not further bother me.  Though I felt a crisis had been avoided, I felt their prying eyes upon me, measuring up my interaction with a clear non-hipster.  My status was being questioned, and less I wished to betray my hidden identity (how stupid this sounds now) I knew I had once again to defend myself.  It is one of the many downsides of being a hipster, having to constantly prove oneself to your so called 'friends'.  I turned to them slowly, bitterly, and said with all the disdain I could muster:

"Non-believer."

I said it with such pain many of them sadly shook their heads--one girl I daresay was so touched she was brought to tears.

"Yeah man, we hear you."  One hipster said, and then added rather angrily "I have when people do that. . . We are what we are!  Get the fuck over it!"

Everyone agreed, and took a thoughtful sip of their beverage, and I joined them.  I could feel my fake moustache curling at the ends and slipping off.

"Hear, hear!"  I said, taking my arm to my mouth to both wipe away the beer and adjust my moustache. There was then a great lull in conversation between myself and anyone else, as I have never really been one for conversation, especially among strangers.  In such a situation I usually just smoke and drink, to keep from looking like some asshole with no friends and nothing really to do.  On this occasion it was no different.

Nearly an hour passed, with little significant happening.  I had consumed many beers and was getting drunker and drunker till I found myself to be well oiled and looking for trouble.  I never know what mood I'll enter when I get nice and drunk, though usually it depends on the atmosphere.  I was feeling mean, I knew in part because of my ridiculous outfit, but mostly because of the hipsters and the little snippets of conversation I had been putting up with:

Hyperbole:

RANDOM HIPSTER:  What you drinking?

RANDOM HIPSTER #2:  Bud Light and soda.  I used to just drink straight vodka, nothing but vodka all the time. . . but I'm trying to slowww dowwwnnn

Hypocrisy:

HIPSTER MONK:  You know I just try to stay positive.  You know, there aint no use in gettin' negative--you know--about anything . . . Know what I meeeean?"

Then upon noticing his Heineken missing, he threw a massive bitch fit, and accused one of the waitresses of cleaning it up.

Idiocy:

HIPSTER CHICK:  You mean Tommy Chong isn't Chinese?

They all came back into me in that moment, the horrid memories of not long ago.  I rubbed my head, feeling the beer take its hold as the world began to take on a softened comical hue.  I thought to leave, but as I got up I staggered about and felt it best to at least wait a little while.  Then, a hipster I had not seen before appeared there in the courtyard double fisting two beers.  He wore an ascot and Bob Dylan shades, and as he went to sit down he put his beers on the table and pulled out a book from his back pocket.  He placed it on the table next to his beers and sat down.  He did this all very solemnly--I figured the book to be The Bible from the way he treated it, but I couldn't see what it was.  It piqued my interest, as I have never seen anyone bring a book to a bar, or any real social event for that matter.

No one said anything about the book, though he had made such a point that he had brought it. Conversation resumed, and he kept mostly to himself--the majority of his energy going to looking intellectually hip.  He sipped his beer and pulled out a cigar and started smoking it. . . that pretentious bastard.  The smell of it quite demanded everyone's attention and before long many of us were watching him smoke his cigar like it was the first one we had ever seen smoked before.  He smiled, and a waitress came up to him and he promptly ordered a brandy.  He was setting up for a real intellectual debate--all he needed was a roaring fire.  After awhile he said:

"So. . ." and like magic a few circled in around him and they began.  Those deemed unworthy were left to wonder bitterly what they were on about.  A few were so upset they left the table.

"What's his deal?"  I asked a girl next to me, who had remained to complain and talk shit.

"You haven't met Nathaniel yet?  Lucky you. . . Who do you know here anyway?"  She asked.

"Julie."  It was a total lie, and the first name to come to my mind.

"Oh," she replied, as if it was of no consequence anyway.  "Yeah well his name used to be Nate, or that's what we all used to call him.  It was what he went by.  You know what I mean.  Well anyway he goes by Nathaniel because he thinks it sound more Victorian or whatever.  I think he's a dick."

"Why Victorian?"

"Questions.  Questions.  Questions!  What are you writing a book or something?"

I nervously lit a cigarette (afraid of getting found out b a hipster chick--I really am a pussy).

"No."

"It was a rhetorical question.  Are you stupid or something?  I know all about stupid--I should--I hear it all day, from everybody.  So many stupid people.  Only stupid people are breeding. . . Isn't that a song?  I think that's a song.  I wonder if I could find it.  I'm sure I could."  Perhaps the wonderment of such a dilemma was too much for her, for she then proceeded to look it up on her iPhone.

"So?"  I asked.

"So what?"

"Why Victorian?"

She rolled her eyes at me, then said:

"Because he reads those kinds of books okay?"  she blurted out.  "Ones we all used to know from back in grade school, but were so boring and stupid none of us have ever actually read them."  She went back to her iPhone after yet another sigh.

Victorian.  Of course.  What a prick, I thought, and got up to get a better look at him.  Nathaniel was surrounded by a bunch of intellectual hipsters, one of which actually wore a French beret.  Nathaniel was expounding with his head up in the stars, with this look on his face like could see Heaven up there, and it fed him all the answers as if sent by God himself.  He gazed into the sky and some how gazed even father into the sky, but then they fell, fell upon me.  He gazed back at two glazed eyes intent on destroying him I'm sure, for I did feel the need to destroy him.  I was quite drunk and the look upon his face changed with the quick knowledge of my hatred.  He had seen such a look before.

"Here, he arrives!  Sir Pip!"  Nathaniel said, gesturing towards me.  He and his boys laughed.

"The fine young gentlemen!"  I replied.  "Shall I beat you now, or after I get the stuck-up wench?"

"Well, can't we just be friends, dear Handel?"

"That depends. . . do you wish to call me sir from here on out?"

"Oh you mean to say you haven't fallen from grace yet?"

"I've fallen more than you know."  I replied.  It was terribly funny and terribly funny to me and me alone, for the others knew not the pain of pretending to be a hipster (or maybe they knew all to well).

"Oh hell you probably haven't even read the book."  Nathaniel replied, apparently having tired of our bullshit confrontation.

"Great Expectations.  Yeah.  Dickens right?  Never read it."

"Of course you havent you f---how did you know it was Great Expectations?!  You must have seen the cover."  He seemed to be getting irrationally angry with me, which I can only assume was because I had beaten at his own game and he didn't very much like it.  "Don't ever look at my stuff. . . don't ever."

I felt I had awoken some spoiled toddler and let a smirk come to my face, which he didn't like much either.

"Don't you laugh at me.  Don't you fucking laugh at me man.  I've had enough of that shit in my motha-fucking life already."  By now any notion anyone had to the properness of Nathaniel had been destroyed, leaving a rotten yolk of distilled douchery and morose malevolence.  "How dare you.  How. . . dare. . . you!"

By now he was making quite the scene.  He threatened to throw the book at my head, and I would have feared injury had I not know he would never part with the book; he would really be nothing then without it.  His friends seemed less willing to fight (I am no intimidating presence), and his friend in the beret took off running altogether.

"You alright there, Nate?"  I asked him.  He turned a bright red, the color of a nice apple, though this apple had no seeds to spit at me, only words:

"Nate!  Nate!  The mother fucker calls me Nate!  I'll rape you bitch!"

It is amazing the things that happen when someone screams rape.  Women instantly freeze, and any man with a daughter or sister immediately thinks of hate.  It is an undeniable force, a practical law of the physical world; what goes up must come down.  In this case, man screams rape and bouncers take him down.  It is a wonderful scene (provided you aren't the one being tackled) and quite a funny one at the Fox and Fiddle, for all male staff are required to wear kilts.

Homophobes turned away for fear of unwarranted nut shots, women looked closer for hope of unwarranted nuts shots, and your truly staggered out of the place, for fear of being associated with such a fool.  On the street outside there was that hipster chick on her iPhone, still looking at song lyrics for all I knew.

"You're dangerous," she said slyly.

"Yeah," I smiled.  "I guess I am."  I felt good, like I had be victorious though I didn't really do anything.  I felt as good as if I had actually tackled the bastard myself.

"Here, call me."  and with that she put a bar napkin in my hand and walked off.

I felt quite victorious then indeed. . .

CASE #003: Bob Dylan Sings Santa Monica

To properly achieve the mindset of the hipster one must stomach dozens of PBR's while listening to hours of shitty indie music.  Only then can one don the costume of the Hipster and mingle among their kind without its most experienced of members getting suspicious. . .  Its best to at least smell like them.  Other necessary items include a pack of cigarettes--the more disgusting the better, for in the hipster mind going against the grain is choice, to be different from the status-quo means a unique acquired taste, and if it cannot be obtained it can always be faked--a smug sense of entitlement, glasses (if you don't need them), contacts (if you need glasses), and if at all possible facial hair strung out like spotty wisps about the neck and face.

If you have these things, and the talent, you too can become an UNDERCOVER HIPSTER, and as I soon found out, sometimes things don't get better with age. . .

Case #003:  Bob Dylan Sings Santa Monica

A Bob Dylan concert sounded like a good idea, in that the opportunities to see him have been dwindling, and he is just the sort of person that attracts hipsters like shit attracts flies.  His music falls into that rare category that allows people to actually feel more cultured and cool for having listened to it, whether or not they really understand it, the key of course being that one could always at least fake it. Faking is what hipsters love to do, and many have said they are modern day hippies, so what better person to go and see than the man who helped lay the frame work? (a frightening thought).

He was playing some Civic Center near the ocean, making for a delightful drive, had it not been for all of the traffic.  When I finally got there, there were hipsters and hippies making their way to the place, of which my favorite was this aging man there with his old lady.  He was wearing a Bob Dylan t-shirt, and jeans and his face was framed by these big grey dreads that swung about as he laughed and kissed his wife. The center was a small little place that looked like it had hosted more than its fair share of local beauty pageants and beach trash balls.  I had no problem getting into the place, as I was in fact half an hour late but at the I.D. check in I had some troubles with the two women working the table.  I chalked it up as another example of the failure of the public education system, as they seemed to struggle with simple math and take more time deliberating over the date of my birth than any normal functioning human being would find plausible.  Finally, they gave me that ever precious wrist band, and I was allowed to drop 14 bucks on two beers.

Walking into the main hall I found it had a sloping cement floor with a stage at one end and fifty some odd seats at the other end, for those who paid the big bucks.  In true star fashion, Bob was late, and as I pondered how long the poor bastards in the front row had been waiting, I shuffled in behind this old hippie looking dude, with a long grey beard and beady brown eyes.  At one point he put on a brown bandanna, and I couldn't help but notice that I was one of the youngest people there, save for the few kids who were dragged along by parents and complained bitterly that they couldn't see the stage at all.  I had been hoping for an abundance of hipsters, but at the moment felt sure they would arrive fashionably late, and in the mean time I could take in the 'originators.'

There was no doubt the concert had attracted a certain type of beast, and of those in attendance the majority was made up of two groups: hippies who had given it up over the years and now only let loose when the kids were out of the house at a sleep over, and hippies who had never given it up, ever.  The latter was indeed more eccentric, with strange speech patterns and behaviors all of their own, while the former carried a certain sadness through which the 'square' world made itself apparent upon all that they deemed 'beautiful' like some sort of rotten blemish they themselves were conscious of, and in turn sensitive about.  And I'll tell you now, there's nothing worse than an aging 'weekend' hippie at a Bob Dylan concert with a square world crew cut and hip world temple beads around his neck draping down some polo shirt as he screams his head off to Bob Dylan, stopping only to reach in his pocket and read some text from the office.

If ever there was proof of the death of the 60's, it was there in that room with me, but that's another topic all together.  To keep from even thinking about it, I looked up at the ceiling, where even now the stage crew was still rigging up technical shit for the show.  After awhile, out of sheer boredom I took to bothering the hippie fellow in front of me, who seemed like he could use some distraction himself, as he couldn't stop playing with his bandanna.

"Where's your beer?"  I inquired.  He turned around with a big ole grin.

"Beer?  Beer?  No beer," to which he added sheepishly "I'm already buzzing on uppers."

"Uppers?"  I asked, apparently with too much intonation for him for he quickly replied:

"Yeah.  Caffeine."

He turned awkwardly and after another fifteen minutes Bob Dylan finally came out.  He was wearing this big hat atop his head, and went straight to his keyboard.  Then came the band, and they too took up their instruments, and without a word started playing.  He opened with Rainy Day Women, though I couldn't really tell which song it was until his smoke riddled lungs let out "everybody must get stoned" with all the muster of a cancer patient on their last legs.  The sound was less than to be desired, and soon I found myself leaving the hot sweaty beer soaked masses to go and get another beer.  I took refuge in the back, where people were standing around looking mildly interested.  The sound was so bad the farther away you got the harder it was to understand him, which I felt impossible earlier, huddled in with everyone else around the stage.

It was then that I saw my first hipster.  Fashionably late, as to attract as much attention as possible.

He appeared with friends in tow, wearing neon pink jeans and neon green shades.  They walked into the place like they owned it, and just in time for the tail end of the show.  They naturally gravitated towards me, being the closest to their age, and they all seemed to be laughing and having a great time.  They seemed to pay little attention to Bob, as if they were just stopping by for a visit to take in the scene and grace all the rest of us squares with their presence.

Fittingly, Bob Dylan started playing 'Ballad of a Thin Man' and after awhile one of the hipster chicks piped in with this gem:

"This is a hoax."  She said it all disgusted like just saying it left a bad taste in her mouth.  Her friends turned to her as all hipsters do when one of their kind says something completely retarded: they turned to her in reverence, and listened intently, as if they were in the company of some great sage with information they, and they alone, were to soon be privileged with.  "This is such bullshit. . . This is NOT Bob Dylan."

They all agreed, and turned to sneer at the old man "pretending" to be Bob Dylan.  I started laughing, audibly.  They turned to look at me with a disgust, as how could another hipster dare laugh at another hipsters hipness?  After a few choice words they said under their collective breath, they moved to the other side of the hall, as if in some way this would make me feel some sort of shame.   How ironic it all seemed, an idiot expressing idiocy as Bob went on with his sandpaper voice, "cause there's somethin' happening here, but you don't know what it is. . . do you, Mr. Jones?"  I thought to call after her, giving her the name Mr. Jones, but I have met many Mr. Joneses in my life, and many are so dedicated to their title they are ignorant to their own ignorance and as such felt such an exclamation would be pointless; a waste of air.  Perhaps she meant that this was not the Bob Dylan she knew, which would make for an even greater level of retardation, for who would go and see a 70 year old man expecting to get the 20 year old man?  I suppose the only answer would be a fucking hipster, and proven by goldie locks with the retarded look on her face.

The ordeal was enough to make me want to get another beer, if only to help eliminate the memory from my mind.  They had moved towards the bar, and as I went to get another beer I heard but more snippets of their conversation.  Bob Dylan was playing 'Like a Rolling Stone' (again it took awhile to decipher this, until he finally made it to the chorus.)

"I could live out on the streets," one of them said confidently.

"Yeah, I don't see what the big deal is," another agreed.

"Whats to get used to?"  Mr. Neon Pink jeans.

It was then that the saw me, and I saw them, and we both shared a look that would kill, if looks could. They quickly stopped their conversation and looked at me with the utmost disdain.  I left to the other corner of the room, moving past a old people and a couple dancing closely to the hoarse sound of Bob Dylan.  I spent the rest of the concert in the corner, finishing my beer and listening to Bob Dylan with a worried look on my face, for it truly looked like this man was close to death, and what air he did have left in his body was being expelled to a group of aging hippies and a bunch of hipster who didn't understand it wouldn't ever understand it.

When it was over we all shuffled out to the parking lot, where the nearby surf was beating up the rocks.  The sky was grey and rather ominous looking.  Getting in my car I headed home, and ended up at a local burger joint where some friends were already well into their drink.  We drank more beers, and I told them all of my adventures in Santa Monica, and when all was said and done I went home to sleep off another successful night as THE UNDERCOVER HIPSTER.

CASE #002: Die Fokken Antwoord

To properly achieve the mindset of the hipster one must stomach dozens of PBR's while listening to hours of shitty indie music.  Only then can one don the costume of the Hipster and mingle among their kind without its most experienced of members getting suspicious. . .  Its best to at least smell like them.  Other necessary items include a pack of cigarettes--the more disgusting the better, for in the hipster mind going against the grain is choice, to be different from the status-quo means a unique acquired taste, and if it cannot be obtain it can always be faked--a smug sense of entitlement, glasses (if you don't need them), contacts (if you need glasses); and if at all possible facial hair like strung out spotty wisps about the neck and face.

If you have these things, and the talent, you too can become an UNDERCOVER HIPSTER, and as I soon found out, sometimes hipsters can actually be fun. . .

Case #002:  Die Fokken Antwoord

El Ray.  Los Angeles, California.

A friend had gotten his hands on some Die Antwoord tickets, and invited me along, knowing a hipster element was rumored to be in attendance at the concert, owing in part to the general mystery surrounding Die Antwoord and the fact that Borgore was opening. It was a HARD event, which meant drugs would also be afoot, leading to the possibility of much hilarity, as drugs + hipsters = all kinds of stupid.

His girl came along as well, and for the sake of this--whatever this is--they'll be called Agent #1 and Agent #2.

When we arrived, Borgore could already be heard from the outside with the incredible boom of the bass. Kids were already being searched, women were already gutting their purses, and as we grew closer a security guard barked orders and a foul faced woman eyed us.  She sat at a table all of her own, and on the table was a fish bowl full of contraband deemed unacceptable for the event.  Upon further inspection I found it to be full of gum, yes gum. . .  Felonious amounts of narcotics were slipping right on by, with much of it already inside, but the real menace--mean Ol' Wrigley was being singled out and confiscated by some wicked woman with an intense hatred for chewers that was unmatched even by the most wretched of school teachers. As we walked in, some smooth talker was trying to get away with bringing in some of his precious chew, and though I didn't see what came of his pleading, I imagined the security guard took a taser to him (the preferred tool when dealing with hippies, dopers, and apparently gum chewers.)

Agent #2 went off for a piss and Agent #1 and I headed for the bar.  I got a beer, while Agent #1 got an Old Fashioned and something for Agent #2, I can't quite remember. Turning from the bar we looked upon a scene that was already an hour in the making. There were people dancing to Borgore, and people drinking, and lying about up against the walls, and making out, and talking, and looking high, and even some looking bored.  It was easy to see why they made such a case about the gum outside; these swine were dirty and treated the place as if it were a trashcan, often throwing cups and all kinds of shit all over the floor.  Wet spots dotted the carpet, from spilled drinks, or those hipsters who were not yet house trained (I'm not certain, and wasn't interested in finding out for sure.)  I'm sure the dance floor was blemished too, but I couldn't really see it, the people were packed in like sardines--sweaty, stoned sardines.

There was nothing to do but feel hot and trapped as Borgore and his kind surrounded you with their fleshy bodies and his pushy music that actually shook you it was so loud and pushy. Talking was a stupid idea, but who comes to a concert to talk?  We all sipped our drinks as Borgore did his thing, looking much like a puppeteer up there with his tables, controlling the crowd and making them do whatever he wanted.  He could get them to say whatever he wanted to (and much of what he got them to say was quite sexual) and with his tables he controlled the music expertly (I suppose.) He even quieted them when he was done.

"What was that everyone was saying?"  Agent #2 asked. "In that last song, what was everyone saying?"

"You be the two girls, she'll be the cup," I replied.

"What?"

"Yeah you heard him right. . . it was a shit reference."  Agent 1 said.  And then to me "Your favorite."

"I know."  I said.

It was then between the lull in acts that I started spotting the hipsters.  The first one didn't make it difficult, as he quite literally ran into me as he escaped the insanity of the dance floor.  He wore no shirt and was dripping sweat, his eyes were glazed over, his pupils huge saucers in pools of milk.  Another hipster just suddenly appeared, wearing a grand cowboy hat with a large feather in it.  Maybe a peacocks feather.  He may have been an apparition of some dead cowboy, I don't know, but the eeriness in the way he suddenly appeared and disappeared lead me to believe it would not be completely ridiculous to at least entertain the idea.

They closed in on us, in true hipster fashion.  There was an unbelievable stench in the air, and little snippets of conversation that all came out stupid and awkward.  There of course was the one old guy, too old to be at such a concert but for some reason way too into the rave scene and touching people to care.  In time, we found a pair of hipsters right behind us, sprouted up as big as trees.

"So you know much about these Die Antwoord fellows?"  One asked us.  He looked like he could have once been athlete, had he not chosen to be so hopelessly hip.

"Nah, not really."  Agent #1 said.

"No."  Agent #2 said.

"Yeah we just heard about em."  His friend also tall but with long hair said.

"We just go these tickets for free.  We just came for a laugh.  Their videos are crazy."  Agent #1 said.

"Yeah, I hear they're pretty stupid."  He said.  He then made small talk at us where we were from, what we do (to which I replied 'astronaut') etc. and even hit on Agent #2 when Agent #1 and I went to refill our drinks before the next show.

Die Antwoord came out to cheers customary to any performance, though when the music started some people seemed quite confused.  The E freaks knew just what to do, and bumped along with the beat while others stood awkwardly, sipping their drinks and looking like they were lost.  I even saw one chick scratch her head and turn to a friend with this ugly look on her face, reminiscent of when beautiful people are asked to think.  People were confused because for one, Ninja, the front man with 'gangsta skills on the mic' was doing his thing in nothing but a pair of boxers, and his favorite move was this hip gyration that makes his dick flop around visibly in his shorts.  He was covered in home-made looking prison tattoos that said things like WISE and HOW CAN AN ANGEL BREAK MY HEART," and depictions of cartoon characters like Richie Rich and Casper, only his Casper had a massive boner and seemed to be stroking it.  He also had these intense eyes that he had a way of making look even more intense when he furrowed his brow.  Quite frankly he looked like he carried a switch blades on him and often cut people just because his favorite color was red.

His partner was Yo Landi Vi$$er, and she had this shrill voice and a bowl/mullet cut that was so atrocious it was actually kind of cool.  She was up on the stage with Ninja, exuding all of this energy and constantly sticking her hands down her pants.  Their DJ wore some strange Quasimodo mask, and they all seemed so alien.

On top of that, they were rapping in both English and Afrikaans in a strange mixture that would make any drug freak question his sobriety.  I was not surprised when I looked around me and found so many confused, though after the first song they were greeted with customary plumes of marijuana smoke coming from somewhere up in the first row.  The songs picked up, and so did the crowd.  It got so bad we had to move to higher ground to get away from it all.  The heat had risen in the room nearly 10 degrees, from all of the people crowding around looking to get a good shot of Yo Landi's ass.  As we went off towards higher ground, I wasn't at all surprised to find the tall Red Wood Hipsters who had been priming themselves for a good laugh ten minutes earlier were now grooving to the music like it was the greatest thing they had ever heard.

From higher ground, naturally we could see the act much better, which consisted mostly of hip gyrations and Yo Landi bending over to show everyone her ass, reaching in her pants, or flipping the crowd off.  They changed many costumes throughout their act, though Ninja kept wearing boxers, just different pairs for nearly every song.  He also did a couple of rap freestyles, and taught the whole crowd some Afrikaans, something to the effect that 'your mom's pussy is in a fish paste jar.'

At one point I swear someone up in the front row of the crowd offered Ninja some Ecstasy, which he denied and simply laughed off.  Yeah, silly hipster rave freaks.  By this time I was plenty drunk, having gone to the bar numerous times to replenish my drink for eight dollars a hit.  As drunkeness took hold, my legs began to weaken and the sweat began to flow.  I worried my fake mustache would come off, but it did not.  In need of some air I left Agent #1 and #2 to themselves and went to the back of the room, where people were more scarce.  Finding a spot on the wall I took the scene in from afar and sipped my overpriced beer. . .  I couldn't help catching snippets of conversation:

"Did I tell you that one story about that bitch?"  This girl asked.  She was talking to her friend, who seemed to be pinned to the corner by her.  She did all the talking, her friend just did all the listening.  "Oh man, like W - T - F. . . "  She actually said W-T-F out loud, in a public place. . .  Just spelled it out without any same.  I laughed.  "I was wearing my hot pink trench coat, and this bitch walks in wearing a fuchsia jacket!!!  I mean we practically looked the same. . . "

I couldn't take it, and went back to Agent #1 and Agent #2, who inquired how was my 'breath of fresh air?'  I told them they didn't want to know, and they believed me, having already heard many of my retarded stories.

Die Antwoord ended the show with an upbeat number called 'Super Evil.'  They started it off by throwing water out on the crowd and spent the rest of the song either flipping off the crowd or staring at them menacingly.  They thanked the crowd and left where they had first arrived on stage, to some small room behind the stage.

The people started leaving, funneling out through the front doors like so much water.  Our drinks had long since been finished, and like everyone else will just dropped the empties out on the floor.  It gave a certain look to the place like one of a disaster zone, complete with survivors shuffling away from the scene.  One drunk girl managed to stagger right into me, this hipster chick with Buddy Holly glasses and heels.  Why she felt the need to wear heels I don't quite know, though I assumed her time at the concert to be a perilous one from the number of people alone.  I imagined she went home and promptly passed out, only to wake up in the morning and find her legs spotted with nothing but bruises.

CASE #001: The Red Dragon

To properly achieve the mindset of the hipster one must stomach dozens of PBR's while listening to hours of shitty indie music.  Only then can one don the costume of the Hipster and mingle among their kind without its most experienced of members getting suspicious--its best to at least smell like them.  Other necessary items include a pack of cigarettes--the more disgusting the better--for in the hipster mind going against the gain is choice, to be different from the status quo means a unique acquired taste, and if it cannot be obtained it can always be faked; a smug sense of entitlement; glasses (if you don't need them), contacts (if you need glasses); and if at all possible, facial hair like strung out spotty wisps about the neck and face.  

If you have these things, and the talent, you too can become an UNDERCOVER HIPSTER, and as I soon found out, not even I had the talent to fake such retardation. . .

Case #001:  The Red Dragon

The Red Dragon is named as such because it has a giant dragon painted on the walls inside, curling around all four walls with its giant face leering at you from one wall, its long belly snaking around light fixtures and booths alike, terminating with a big fat tail lashing at you on the opposite wall.  Hipsters love this place, and because of the dragon they most often make mention of The Neverending Story and Falkor, and when they do they're always smug and clever about it, acting like they were the first ones to ever make the reference.  But soon, if they stay longer than five minutes, they realize their foolishness immediately, for there will be another fool, saying nearly the same thing they said, and in that instant he bites his tongue and realizes only for an instant how predictable the whole lot of self prescribed hipsters can be.

The number of hipsters present varies from as few as only three or four, to as many as sixty, all in a space for at least one hundred people, depending of course on the night, hour, or occasional.  On this night, a Friday, the shit was thick and they were everywhere, practically hanging from the rafters and standing in their most grandeous of costumes with leering faces like vultures ready to pick your bones clean. Friday nights are big for hipsters, the lumber jack shirts are in full affect drifting about a fog of retardation and cigarette smoke so thick at times you can only see their shirts, or their stupid faces contorted into some sort of bullshit attempt at intellectualism. . . Hello Bravehart face, I love what you did with the face paint, care to talk about the finer points of painting houses?

I shit you not, this asshole is talking about paining houses, with the sort of artistic integrity one would have found in Michaelangelo after painting the Sistine Chapel, yet he only paints dilapidated shacks in Culver City will dull lead paint.

Arrived at 9:47 P.M.  Ordered 2 beers on the spot--two P.B.R.'s.

First ruse unsuccessful.

At 9:57 P.M. inquired if it was acceptable to smoke indoors, making sure to expose a pack of Parliaments.

"No,"  the bartender replied, emphatically as he pointed towards the door "Out there."  I knew the law but the ploy had worked--I had drawn the attention of those around me who were suddenly impulsed themselves to take up a smoke.  Outside a few even asked me for cigarettes, noticing the pack I had was of their favorite brand, thus indoctrinating me into the world of the hopelessly hip.  I in fact hated this particular brand, as did most hipsters for that matter, and like them I was pretending to actually adore them.  Shit was I hipster?  At the moment I wasn't too far deep into the shit, but maybe thats how a lot of them come to be; they play till it becomes real.

10:03 P.M. Hipsters mingled about the patio, clusters of threes and fours, few groups as large as ten or eleven.  I was beginning to lose my cool, this whole idea seemed stupid and senseless, though mostly stupid.  These people weren't amusing me, and even worse was the thought of some asshole coming around to my scene just make me play the fool and get a good laugh out of me just for the sake of a good laugh. . . But then The Idiot Twins appeared with thanks:

"Hey thanks for the smokes."  Idiot 1 said.

"Yeah, it was real gracious of you.  These cigarettes are choice."  Idiot 2 went next.

I just nodded.  I thought it was more hip.

The Idiot Twins aren't really twins, their name comes from their identical personalties and mental faculties, or lack there of.

"Yeah its real nice to meet someone who's genuine."  Idiot 1 said.  Leave it a hipster to pick out the only person intentionally faking the hipster scene and call em genuine.  It was fitting.

"Lots of phonies."  I said.

"I fucking hate phonies."  Idiot 1 exhaled cotton thick smoke with a look of distate rising to his face with a vision of such a creature.  He's got sideburns that rival mine, though mine are better (I'm not just saying that) a crooked nose too big for his small face, and small eyes made even smaller in comparison to his beak down below.  "Why just the other day we beat the ever loving shit out of a guy cause he said he liked Metallica."

"Huh-huh-huh-yeah."  Idiot 2 said.  He looked like Jesus with glasses and laughed just like one would imagine a troll would laugh like - biolus and offensive to the sense of smell. "You don't like Metallica, do yah?"

"No, Coldplay."  Were they on to me?  Were they just fucking with me?  I was in no mood to find out so I said good-bye rather politely, put out my cigarette and went back inside. In the bathroom I checked myself in the mirror, looking for faults the lame eyes of a hipster could possibly perceive, but found none.  I was safe.  Safe from a hipster beating? Man I sound soft.  You are soft.

10:30 P.M. ordered two more P.B.R's, and here come the Idiot Twins again.  They appeared different to me, seen without the moon or the circling smoke about their faces but it wasn't so much the change of scenery as it was the change in their expressions, which carried a hint of malice despite their playfulness.

"Look at you.  Big bad Pabst Blue Ribbon.  Yet you're nursing those beers of yours, perhaps you aren't one for the taste?"

"Perhaps."  Sipppp.

"Hey how bout a cigarette."  Idiot 2 said.

I gave them the whole pack.

"Why look at that!  He's quite generous isn't he?"

"Yeah, quite generous."  Idiot 1 said.  "Why so much one would think he doesn't even like Parliaments!"

"What do you want with me?"  I asked.  "I'd rather pay 5 dollars for three cigarettes than pay nothing and listen to an hour of your wisdom."

"Hey are you in a band man?"  Idiot 2 asked.  "Cause we're both in bands, and music you know, its a beautiful thing."

"The Beatles are beautiful?"  Although I wasn't drunk I was feeling mean; I could feel that sly smile coming to my face.  "Yeah I play accordion"

"Imagine that!"  Idiot 1 exclaimed.  "I play accordion too.  I play most things.  We should jam!"

"Yeah."  Idiot 2 said, excited.

"Yeah."  I said, without excitement.

And it went on like that for nearly half an hour, these two goading me and acting like a general nuisance until I finished the shitty beer and made my way towards the exit.

"Well boys, nice meeting you.  I'm Earvin Johnson.  My friends call me Magic.  If you need me, look me up on the Vainbook."  They extended hands but I kept on walking, certain they had no idea I had just referred to myself as the twelve time NBA All-star, 3 time Finals MVP, 3 time MVP, and 5 time NBA Champion and starting point guard for the Los Angeles Lakers circa 1979-1991,  and as I descended out into the street I felt a whole lot better.  The fresh air, the copious amounts of unhindered air not squandered by a hundred heads all breathin' in so their mouths can work more boring, tired, bullshit.  The breeze kicked up fine and I felt strange, mostly because I was outside of a bar and I didn't have that warm drunk feeling that comes with that time honored tradition of bar drinking, for these guys even made drinking unbearable, and I was beginning to think about how the night had been a total waste, uneventful and not worth writing about at all. . .

When then I heard someone shout HEY! behind me, and as I turned I met a fist that carried with it a hatred and intent to kill I had never quite met before.  I have never really been in a fight, not one driven by hate anyway, and I'm sure if I had, it would have gone much like this one.  It was the Idiot Twins of course, who had known about me all along, from the second they ever talked to me, and it seemed as if yes, tonight would be another night for them to brag about: "Heh, yeah we took out this kid who claimed to be a hipster but wasn't, a REAL PHONEY BALONEY, and we got him outside the bar after he slung shit about accordions and Coldplay."  And as they pounded my stupid God-fearing corpse they were laughing.  These sick bastards were laughing at the sight of blood, at the anguish produced by a stiff kick to the stomach--these sick bastards--these sick bastards--perhaps I'll die here tonight and what then?--these rotten guts defiled with drink can't take such blows--these sick bastards--pure Horatio Alger in reverse--in reverse--these sick bastards--and nobody was helping--and these sick bastards--and this sick world--and these sick thoughts--and for a second I don't BLAME them--destroy destroy destroy it all--and these sick bastards--and I'm a sick bastard--and the wheels on the bus go round and round.

A hipster chick who still felt motherly through her facade thought to comfort me until her cab arrived, after which I was left to cough blood and laugh.  Silly hipsters.  And then came my cab, and I went home and got in bed with creaking bones on my creaking bed, under which wooden planks protested the sudden weight.  I lay there, thinking and reeling, wondering if I should go to sleep, for fear a concussion would never allow me to wake again, but who should care I ever wake again, and why should I care my lungs would bleed rust forever?  And slowly. . . with a head all jangled about and mangled and full of a thousand thoughts a minute just like Cassady, cursed early Kerouac like an asshole and slowly slipped off to sleep.

And when I woke with a head still ringing, still hungover--no, I didn't drink that much last night--still ringing from the beating I laughed and said:

"Maybe these excursions will be fun after all."

These excursions will be fun after all.