We all wear uniforms. Your mother, your brother, your hot date, your teacher—all of us. Not baseball uniforms or waitressing uniforms--the ones I'm talking about are the uniforms we wear everyday. Mine consists of the following: New Balance 574s, plaid shorts or jeans, and a t-shirt. Sometimes the t-shirt has color and a logo and very rarely it is substituted for a button-up, but more often than not it’s just a plain white “t”.
Last night at Linda’s on Capitol Hill I had the fortune of getting to take in the new component of the hipster uniform: cut-off jean shorts. Half the guys in the outdoor seating area were wearing pants that they had mangled with scissors or some other kind of sharp edge (mutilated Pabst can?) and here is the reason it was so flabbergasting:
They were only doing this semi-ironically.
Now let’s go back three years to when I attended UW and lived on 20th Avenue NE in a seedy but morally fulfilling student house. One day our house hosted a barbecue, and my friend and I decided it would be hilarious if we wore extremely short cut-off jeans. Emboldened by gross amounts of Olympia brand beer and three-inch inseams, we strutted around the yard, giggling stupidly as we watched girls pretend to recoil in disgust. Except for my t-shirt, which depicted a large-mouth bass leaping out of the water that I had cut off near the belly to display more of my midriff than anyone should ever have to see, the whole thing was fairly innocuous.
But nowadays things have gotten out of hand.
Two weeks ago I went to Vancouver to visit my girlfriend and was brought by her sister and sister’s her American Apparel “deep V” wearing squeeze to a trendy vegetarian restaurant on 4th Avenue. Outside the restaurant sat a gaggle of twenty-somethings, obstructing the sidewalk as they sat cross -legged playing cards, waiting to get in and fill their maws with PETA approved foodstuffs. Every single one of them was wearing cut-off jean shorts. Some of them, the more “expressive” ones, had on thick flannel shirts accented by suspenders. With their scraggly beards, they looked like skinny, Amish versions of Paul Bunyan.
I asked one of them if there was a liquor store nearby and he said “yes,” and that “everyone should all, like, get some wine and go drink it in his van.” After shuddering discreetly I politely declined, stating that I would rather slit my wrists on and bleed to death on the sidewalk , and our group moseyed on its way.
I had kind of forgotten about this incident until last night, when I was figuratively slapped across the face by frayed denim and “Oh my God, he’s crazy for wearing cut-off jean shorts, I kind of like it” boys exuding self-satisfaction and girls waiting to give it to them. I sat down next to my friend and her friend and after remarking, “What the fuck is going on here/ I feel out of place” we launched into a 10-15 minute debate on whether or not it was OK that I had just judged the shit out of these hipsters based solely on their apparel. The conversation then turned to judgments in general, asking whether or not it is human nature and if one can compare the snap judgment one makes when meeting someone for the first time to one made driving through an intersection trying to avoid a traffic accident. As usual, I pushed drama. I pushed traffic accident.
“The bottom line,” what I should’ve stated but didn’t, “is that these neo-hippy hipsters are no better than the ICP kids that hang out at the 45th Street bus stop on the AVE and talk about how much they hate their parents. In fact, they’re worse. They were horrible sunglasses that make their faces look like bugs and play kickball in your local park but get pissed off at anyone that actually tries. They are striving towards a level of apathetic mediocrity that makes me cringe.”
The debate ended in a stalemate when a jean short-wearing kid with a basketball jersey accidentally bumped a glass off the table that shattered on the ground below. I got up to go to the bathroom and, slipping past a guy in suspenders, made my way to the haven of the lavatory to reflect on the discussion that had just taken place.
“I think it’s good that they are expressing themselves,” my friend’s friend had said, “I don’t think I would have the balls to do that.”
“That’s the problem,” I shot back. “It doesn’t take balls. Everyone here is doing it. It takes balls not to do it. I’m the only one here wearing white plaid shorts and I feel like at any second I might get hit over the head with a fixed-gear sprocket for looking like a frat boy.”
And that is the problem, with hipsterdom, or any sub-cultural movement: what starts of as “individualistic expression” soon becomes the norm, and then you’re just another uniform-wearing patsy like me in my white plaid shorts. Or you in your cut-off jean-shorts and suspenders. We’re all patsies. We’re all shmucks. The only difference is, you look like a fucking idiot.
Showing posts with label hippies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hippies. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Ushuaia
I would like to formally apologize for the recent lull in blog activity. But I do have an excuse: I am Hella South. I am in Ushuaia, one of the most southerly towns in South America. It is approximately as far south of the equator as Anchorage, Alaska, is north. It is a mythical land of polar bears and blue-headed boobies, a land of seal-blubber parkas and whale-bone canoes.
The good thing about being so far south (see: Souf) is this: unless I am to dip my supple hindquarters into the fridgid waters of the Atlantic and attempt to swim to Antarctica, I can't go much further. Which means I have to go north. Which means I have to go to Buenos Aires. Which means I have to go home.
Plus, I saw a penguin yesterday.
Most of you are probably wondering how my mental health is holding up. I have been on the road for quite some time, and lately have been traveling on my own. It is, judging by my last blog entry, a fair question. I cannot at this point give you a full psychological report, but I can say this: the hippie count is somewhere between "Low" and "Nonexistent." Which is thrilling. Yes, friends, it would appear that hippies do not particularly care for cold weather, an agreeable phenomenon for whose explanation I have a variety of hypotheses:
1) In a tropical climate, warm air and languid breezes offer plenty of opportunity for armpit sniffing, an activity hippies are known to enjoy with particular zeal. Vice versa, cold climates offer very little opportunity for armit sniffing, as one must cover himself in a parka or some other kind of heat-conserving garment.
2) "Reggae Riddims" are popular on the beach. They are not popular, however, when the beach is 14 degrees and dotted with ice floes.
3) There is very little marijuana this far south. Indeed, it would probably be easier to find and smoke some kind of hallucinagenic lychen than it would be to find pot.
4) The only drum circles here are done by the natives right before they go out to sea to ritualistically hunt and kill gray whales. Anyone wearing tie-dye is harpooned.
As you can see, this is not an environment particularly suited to "free spirits." In fact, it is an environment not really suited to anything but grizzly bears and people that are "fucking gnarly." Hippies are not gnarly. They are docile. The ideal environment for a hippie is 72 degrees F, beach hammock, Peter Tosh CD, and ganja. If the ganja is plentiful and there is no deodorant for a 1-2 mile radius, all the better. Hippies do not like adverse conditions. They like to "take it easy," "go with the flow," and they especially like to "chill." Why is it then, I ask, that hippies are associated with "overcoming adversity," especially through activities like non-violence? Why would they be associated with anything requiring mental competence or physical strain when their keenest abilities seem to lie in fashioning bongs out of apples and weaving hemp necklaces? It is downright puzzling, and I will not attempt to provide a concrete answer just in this post. I will, however, say this: the song "Legalize It" by Peter Tosh is not about marijuana. It is about laziness. It is about sloth. It is about the soul's right to retreat from society and live in a world dominated by tofu and Manu Chao CD's. A world dominated by "peace" and "love."
But in Ushuaia, there is no time for peace and love. Indeed, there doesn't need to be. There are no drugs, no crime. The people are of an amiable and hard-working type that endures the harsh climate with a smile its face.
Hopefully it will continue like this for centuries to come, for I fear the day when a confused-looking tourist wanders out of the bus station, struggling to pile his dreadlocks under his oversized knit hat that vaguely displays the colors of the Jamaican flag. That day, if it comes, will be a sad day. It will be a day in which we will have to kiss the time-honored whale hunts goodbye, making way instead for some kind of giant tofu replica with flippers made of vegan seaweed. Traditional song and dance as we know it we will be thrown to the wayside to make room for such groups as "The Toots and the Maytails," and a breed of dancing that resembles mating orangutans in slow-motion. But worst of all, my friends, there will be no more smiling faces, for the hippies take it all. The happiness, the freedom, the ambition. Every last goddamn drop. And they replace it with "love." Peace, and love.
-Boosh Clown
The good thing about being so far south (see: Souf) is this: unless I am to dip my supple hindquarters into the fridgid waters of the Atlantic and attempt to swim to Antarctica, I can't go much further. Which means I have to go north. Which means I have to go to Buenos Aires. Which means I have to go home.
Plus, I saw a penguin yesterday.
Most of you are probably wondering how my mental health is holding up. I have been on the road for quite some time, and lately have been traveling on my own. It is, judging by my last blog entry, a fair question. I cannot at this point give you a full psychological report, but I can say this: the hippie count is somewhere between "Low" and "Nonexistent." Which is thrilling. Yes, friends, it would appear that hippies do not particularly care for cold weather, an agreeable phenomenon for whose explanation I have a variety of hypotheses:
1) In a tropical climate, warm air and languid breezes offer plenty of opportunity for armpit sniffing, an activity hippies are known to enjoy with particular zeal. Vice versa, cold climates offer very little opportunity for armit sniffing, as one must cover himself in a parka or some other kind of heat-conserving garment.
2) "Reggae Riddims" are popular on the beach. They are not popular, however, when the beach is 14 degrees and dotted with ice floes.
3) There is very little marijuana this far south. Indeed, it would probably be easier to find and smoke some kind of hallucinagenic lychen than it would be to find pot.
4) The only drum circles here are done by the natives right before they go out to sea to ritualistically hunt and kill gray whales. Anyone wearing tie-dye is harpooned.
As you can see, this is not an environment particularly suited to "free spirits." In fact, it is an environment not really suited to anything but grizzly bears and people that are "fucking gnarly." Hippies are not gnarly. They are docile. The ideal environment for a hippie is 72 degrees F, beach hammock, Peter Tosh CD, and ganja. If the ganja is plentiful and there is no deodorant for a 1-2 mile radius, all the better. Hippies do not like adverse conditions. They like to "take it easy," "go with the flow," and they especially like to "chill." Why is it then, I ask, that hippies are associated with "overcoming adversity," especially through activities like non-violence? Why would they be associated with anything requiring mental competence or physical strain when their keenest abilities seem to lie in fashioning bongs out of apples and weaving hemp necklaces? It is downright puzzling, and I will not attempt to provide a concrete answer just in this post. I will, however, say this: the song "Legalize It" by Peter Tosh is not about marijuana. It is about laziness. It is about sloth. It is about the soul's right to retreat from society and live in a world dominated by tofu and Manu Chao CD's. A world dominated by "peace" and "love."
But in Ushuaia, there is no time for peace and love. Indeed, there doesn't need to be. There are no drugs, no crime. The people are of an amiable and hard-working type that endures the harsh climate with a smile its face.
Hopefully it will continue like this for centuries to come, for I fear the day when a confused-looking tourist wanders out of the bus station, struggling to pile his dreadlocks under his oversized knit hat that vaguely displays the colors of the Jamaican flag. That day, if it comes, will be a sad day. It will be a day in which we will have to kiss the time-honored whale hunts goodbye, making way instead for some kind of giant tofu replica with flippers made of vegan seaweed. Traditional song and dance as we know it we will be thrown to the wayside to make room for such groups as "The Toots and the Maytails," and a breed of dancing that resembles mating orangutans in slow-motion. But worst of all, my friends, there will be no more smiling faces, for the hippies take it all. The happiness, the freedom, the ambition. Every last goddamn drop. And they replace it with "love." Peace, and love.
-Boosh Clown
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