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.
No comments:
Post a Comment