Hipsters: Give me my weird shit back.

For the past while I’ve thrown myself headfirst into the now common practice of crucifying hipsters. Figuratively at this point, but you never know. But why? It’s twofold I suppose. From a purely selfish angle, I loathe anything that’s done for image alone. Be it ironic t-shirts, record collecting, taxidermy or vintage bikes. This, to me, devalues the honest pursuit of these things by real, legitimate weirdos/geeks and pathetic nerds. My people you could say.

These things have been stolen from us and are now unjustly put into the hipster category. I now feel sheepish about my Colonel Sanders, Galagher, and Telly Savalas records. My truck nuts have lost their sheen. And I’m deeply saddened when I look into the eyes of my life size Vincent from Beauty And The Beast poster. So much so that I gifted to someone so I could walk away from the pain.

Women in prison movies. Howard the Duck. Awful art. Bad TV. None of these things have a place in the home of a guy wearing skinny jeans sporting a 1920s moustache. You see he and his kind do not appreciate the underlying beauty of ridiculous things. The struggle involved in finding an unopened package of Alf trading cards. The joy in putting on a Christian Ventriloquist record. These things are precious. Not trends to further one’s image.

Now, when I see Galagher smash a watermelon, I no longer see the fruit. Instead, I see my heart being smashed one zany swing at a time. I'd tell you I was about to cry, but you might think I was being ironic. 

Thanks for not asking

Every year, without fail, the media hits the streets during heat waves to ask people what they think of them. Here’s what I think: It’s summer and during this time, it tends to get hot. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that how it always is? They’ll hit public pools and outdoor patios to get the inside story on what this heat really means to people. You'll hear things like, “Yep, I’m gonna hit the pool” or "thank goodness for patios!” This is not news. This is a season. The same thing happens during winter. “What do you think of the current cold spell? “ Hmmmmmmm? It’s winter. There’s no scoop or inside details to be found. The seasons have changed and now it’s cold. This happens every fucking year. End of story. We don’t need candid interviews so we can better understand the three centimetres of snow that fell last night. So stop it you uninspired bastards. Get back to things that really matter. Like what celebs are sporting cellulite around the pool this year. Now that's news.

What’s with my hairline?

Why does it insist on flirting with my eyebrows? When will this seemingly endless game end? Just connect with them already! It’s been 35 years in the making. Take the plunge. Those 4 millimetres have been holding on to dear life for far too long. It’s time for them to retire. Hairline: Meet my eyebrows. Let’s consummate this relationship once and for all. Do it. The masquerade is over.

Ova here?

I was surrounded by stereotypes while walking in New York’s little Italy last week. Short, pudgy, greasy haired Italian restaurant hosts outside every restaurant selling the virtues of their food while ending every sentence with “ova here”. “You gonna lova our pasta, it’s a like mama used to make. In fact, it's mama who’s making it. She’s ina the back, slaving over some handmade gnocci…..ova here” After such a heart wrenching sales pitch, I loved answering with complete disinterest. “No thanks,” I’d say and walk away. But they’d follow, throwing their arms in the air, proclaiming that I had insulted them by not looking at the menu. It was a strange feeling having a last name that has anything to do with what I saw and heard. They were begging for my money using demeanor and attitude that would be at home in a scene from Goodfellas. I was with three people who have no connection to Italy and I must say that I was a little embarrassed. Da vinci. Michaelangelo. Hell, Sophia Loren. For that night, they were all trumped by a guy name Vinnie who whores out his mom and his culture to sell spinach-filled ravioli. Ova here.

Royal Traditions

Watching from afar and by accident it was clear to me that the royal wedding was an absolute exercise in full-on bullshit. Why do we care about these people? Why is royalty even something we entertain or condone in this day and age? And is it me or is the inbreeding glaringly obvious? I mean look at Prince Charles’ ears. I bet you his fingers are like yard sticks.

What I really get a kick out of is the non-stop array of trivial traditions that precede almost everything. The white gloves shall remain on until the horse is dismounted. Said gloves shall be placed in a box and handed to a guy in a strange outfit. He will walk four paces to the left and not look anyone in the eye.  Elder statesmen will carry swords. The queen will send you a letter if she accepts your desire to have tea with her. The white gloves will still be in the box. A separate pair of white gloves will also be in a box in case the others prove to be faulty. You will arrive in a gold carriage. Ask permission before you step out. Just do it. It’s tradition.  Do not look at the box containing the white gloves. Wave. Wave some more. But without the gloves. They’re still supposed to be in the box. Wait for the queen to approach you. Take six steps forward, outreach your hand, have her take it. She will push you away when she’s done. Why? Because it’s tradition. And because she’s an asshole.  Now, finally, take the white gloves out of the box, drop your knickers and wipe your ass with them. 

MJ Clipped His Toenails

I admit to being a Michael Jackson fan.  He was my introduction to being a fan of anything. Now that he’s gone, I’m still on the fence about his guilt regarding the allegations made against him. But one other thing that I can’t help but think about is how weird it would be to see him do anything normal. Alarmingly enough, I find it easier to visualize him seducing a child than brushing his teeth.  That skeletal, ghost-like veneer just doesn’t lend itself to say, peeling an orange or applying deodorant. Can you see him doing everyday things? Just like everyone, he switched his pillow to the colder side in bed at night. He farted. He burped. He may have even picked what was left of his nose. Although all normal things, I still find it easier to visualize feeding an 8-year-old wine. In his younger years, things like putting on a pair of socks would not seem strange at all, but in what I will call “the ghoul” years, it would look comedic. Almost frightening. Oh well.  He’s gone and we’ll never know whether he was innocent or not. Or how it looked when he clipped his toenails.

It's just hair

Why do razor ads have to be so prolific? Words like “maximum” or “mach 5” are tossed around like nobody’s business. It’s as if these technological wonders are fulfilling some innate need for advanced facial hair removal. Like we’ve all been waiting and biding our time for the next razor breakthrough. I have never paid so much attention to a shave. But in these ads, the guy always seems so pleased with how proficient his hair removal skills are. His girlfriend – usually looking on adoringly – is also impressed by his smooth, ultra, turbo, science-infused shave. Seems to me like they’re marketing to 10-year old boys. “Oh look, big words and flashy stuff. It’s like a rocket ship! I want to shave with a rocket ship. I’m going to buy this razor because it reminds me of a rocket ship.” It doesn’t work on me. I have a beard.  It’s a statement. I’m shunning the rocket ship. Your hair removal revolution will have no place in my bathroom. Who am I kidding? Rocket ships are super neat. Super-duper neat. Yeah, I said it.

He definitely didn’t see me coming.

So yesterday I was waiting for the bus with a considerable crowd of people. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a blind man with one of those sticks they use, rapidly approaching. He seemed in control as he effortlessly made his way toward me. Oh no prob I thought. He’ll veer away when he needs to. Wrong. Within seconds, I had his “poker” rattling between my legs.  I had to jump over it to avoid falling. The 5-second exchange felt like an eternity. Was I about to be tripped by a blind man? The irony was too pronounced for me to even see it as a possibility.  In the end, I managed to avoid falling. He apologized and went on his way with razor sharp accuracy I might add.  His stick glided past everyone else's legs with ease. Apparently, my gams don't register with blind folk. What's next? Will I find myself being told to shut up by a deaf man? I wouldn't be surprised.

No. Not a deaf man. Instead, while nestled between 15 passengers on the bus, a man not 5cm from me  decided that it was the perfect time to start whistling. It was one of those moments, much like almost being tripped by a blind man, that you just can’t prepare for. So I said nothing, which for me is a revelation, as I tend to seek out confrontation whenever and wherever it presents itself. No. This time I decided to endure his coffee-and-timbit-soaked melodies until I reached my destination.  I got there halfway through his rendition of "Holiday" by Madonna. I kid you not. It would be so nice my ass. 

Manhandled

I only write when something – an idea or thought - presents itself to me naturally. That hasn’t happened for some time. But today, inspiration hit me in the most unexpected way: through a giant set of transsexual man hands. Let me explain. I get my hair cut at a place down the street and it’s usually a crapshoot in terms of who ends up styling my coif. Completely random. So I threw caution to the wind and let fate make my decision for me.  As luck would have it, I ended with an Asian transsexual with hands that made my head feel like a pool ball. These were mitts. Baseball mitts. And every snip brought more attention to her meaty gloves. The scissors literally disappeared into the never-ending sea of flesh. My head thrashed recklessly. With my eyes closed, I swore it could have been Wilt Chamberlain behind the chair. It’s all I could think about.  In fact, I’m still thinking about it. My haircut is a constant reminder of the ruthless manhandling I endured not 3 hours ago.  Then came the shampoo after the cut.  It was miraculous. With one “palming” she could scrub every inch of my head. Efficient? You bet she was. Convincing in her transition? Not so much. 

Make mine a moist one

So what’s with Coors Light owning cold? Is this not the most underachieving brand proposition of all time? Any beer can be cold. In fact, any “thing” can be cold. Put it in the fridge and viola, it’s cold.  While other beers celebrate their brewing tradition or the quality of their ingredients, Coors has decided to tell the world that their beer reacts favourably to your fridge. It’s like a frozen pizza company puffing out their chests about how hot their pizza gets if you put it in the oven. Or a clothing company boasting about how their t-shirts get incredibly dry. “Hey man. Let’s go grab some Coors. I’ve heard they get really, really, really cold. Can’t wait to pop a few in the fridge to see what happens. Oh, we’re drinking cold beer tonight let me tell you”. Maybe I should start my own beer company and make my point of difference the fact that my beer is wetter than other beers. The wettest beer around. I mean this stuff is wet.