Jonquill's

Guess who can’t draw Logos! This guy!

In Uncategorized on October 11, 2010 at 11:40 pm

I thought Double Dare was stupid.

There.  I said it.  Breathe.  Breathe.

I think it’s stupid now, and I thought it was stupid then.  Okay?!  I did!  Is that okay?  Can you deal with that?  I…I…I’m sorry.  I don’t mean to be this way.  I just…I don’t know if I was raised right.  I…<snurfle> I thought…it was gross.

And Mark Summers has a creepy ass smile.  I mean, freaky creepy.  Like that dude in your office that keeps trying you to try that stew his cousin made.  It smells like feet and grandma, Steven!  I’m not eating that!

This is how I have betrayed my generation.  This is how I have fallen.  This is the damnation they shall carve with finality upon my head stone.

This.  Only this…

Maybe this is how I fail to be a hipster.  Is a general hatred of a nostalgic childhood pop culture touchtone enough?  Because honestly, I’m sitting on the border line.

And it doesn’t take much.  It’s like hot sauce in your chicken soup.  You put a little in, and you’ve got…hot chicken soup, or something.  You see point.  Just a little dab will do you.

I nearly became a preppy in my former years.  I went to a private school.  I owned boat shoes; and worse, regularly went ON boats, in said shoes.  (I did get them for a reason.)  And most damnable of all, I knew how to tie a bow tie before the age of ever.

Only a few things saved me from falling entirely into that khaki covered crevasse.

1.) I have never gone skiing.
2.) I have never owned my own car.
3.) I have never been to Martha’s Vineyard.

The third one is key, because that trumps all.  If you’ve been to Martha’s Vineyard, that’s it.  Drape the casket in Burberry, because you?  You’re done for.

The very ground oozes yuppie.  It’s a staggeringly little known fact that simply setting foot on Martha’s Vineyard will result in a unrelenting urge to wrap either your shoulders or your waist with a light cardigan in a solid color.

That is why the entire island is surrounded by and Wall of China like string of Brooks Brother’s outlets.

Enjoy the old-timey map-like thingy.  Also enjoy the dashes.  I like ’em.

Each summer, as feet fall upon the Vineyard, the call is heard.  And that siren song sends the silk stockinged savages salivating over the summer’s new sweater.  And each summer, Brooks Brother’s feasts, and then curls and slinks away into it’s argyle cave.  Alone.  And waiting.

I’ve looked on only from afar.  Only my forcefully imposed ignorance of what the hell that dog is, and why the hell if it’s a vineyard, why I’ve never seen any Massachusetts wine stocking the shelves down at Old Mickeys Booze Palace…only my strictly enforced stupidity has saved me from preppy-dom.

But now it looks like I am doomed to a worser fate.

I saw this coming for a while now.  I knew it would take me one day.

I live in western Brooklyn.  I have an enduring affection for pop culture, much of it obscure or long since forgotten.  My t-shirt collection is wide and expansive, and consiting of no less that six shirts with designs based on web comics.  I have been drunk on a roof, and wasn’t sure who’s roof it was.

Enjoy the mathy thing.  Being math like.  Is mathy a word?  Shouldn’t it be?

Slowly, each day in the ‘burg, or it’s closest environs I am inching closer and closer to that most hated of all monikers.

The hipster.

I had defenses before.  I had my outs.

None of my t-shirts are worn ironically.  I still like Tenacious D, thank you very much.  I’ll go to a concert, if the whole clan is up for it, but it’s not really a regular occurance.  I don’t own either an iPad or an iPhone.  My glasses are perscription.

I had my defenses.

But just as Martha’s Vineyard can turn someone into a Reagan loving tie tack owner, so are there artifacts that can turn a boy hipster in the blink of a tiny dog in a scarf’s wink.

A kick ball can do the deed, but it hasn’t done me in.

Pabst Blue Ribbon works, but it requires at least two kegs worth to kick in, and I stand by the High Life, thank you very much.

What has felled me, is something else all together.

I dodged them long and hard. I did everything I could, though I knew they were waiting outside my house.  Lurking.  Somewhere along side the vests and suspenders and skinny ties that have slinked into my wardrobe somehow without me noticing.  Those bits of neck and shoulder wear were just setting the ground work.

Setting the stage for inevitable.

I now own a pair of black…skinny…jeans…

Good god the shame.  The horror.  Just sit me down and talk to me about the third time you saw Spoon.  That show wasn’t even announced was it?  But somehow you got there?  That’s awesome dude.

Gaaaaaahhh!

I didn’t mean to.  I never did.  I needed them for a costume, I swear.  And you know what?  I don’t care!  I don’t care that they’re on their way out.  I don’t care if they look a little tight in the crotchal region!

Why, you ask.  Because.  I know I’m trendy.  I know, with utter certainty that I am chock full of trendiness.  All of me, and every last piece of my wardrobe is awash with Trend.

Behold, bitches!!!

That little bowl in front?  Nesting measuring cups!  I know!  Cute, right?!

Oh, and who wants a cherry on their sundae of trendi-tacular awesomeness?  Guess what?!  This shit rocks in like the Miller High Life of detergents, ya’ll!

I may be a hipster now.  But I am your master!!

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