The Story of Dolly - Part II

By the second day, it was all anyone could talk about.

"Did you hear about Dolly?" people in the elevator would speak to each other as if trading privileged information.

"Yeah, I hear she's heading straight for us."

"What are you going to do?"

"Well stay, of course. I've weathered storms before. It won't be that bad."

But it was that bad.  

We had all hoped that Dolly - which had begun as a small Caribbean tropical storm hardly worth mentioning when we arrived in South Padre - would swing upward in the Gulf, slamming into oft hurricane-pummeled Louisiana, Mississippi, or Alabama and leaving Texas with some wind and rain, but otherwise intact.  By mid-afternoon, however, the storm path projections had put South Padre Island squarely in Dolly's sights; she would hit us directly sometime in the early morning hours. And worse still, she had gathered speed in the Gulf and had worked herself into a Category 3 Hurricane, gyrating through the shallow waters with winds of close to 100 m.p.h.

Yeah, we were f*****.

In a preemptive strike to try and prevent people from being stuck on the Causeway when the storm hit, the Texas Department of Transportation had closed the only bridge to the mainland - seemingly without warning anyone that they were doing it - thus effectively trapping everyone on the tiny Island while Dolly growled hungrily out somewhere over the horizon, waiting to devour us. It was like some kind of cruel social experiment; I felt like a sailor in the movie Das Boot/U571 when they have to seal up the hatches to prevent losing the whole submarine but condemn me to death by drowning in the process.

It was Utilitarianism - only in this case, our sacrifice saved no one. They were just hanging us out to dry.

The hotel we were staying at - God love em - tried to make the best of the situation. After boarding up the windows and securing the deck chairs, they invited everyone, including children, to the bar for live music, dancing, and $3 Hurricanes. Clever right?

If we're gonna die, we'd prefer to not remember it.

It was a pretty good party, and we all drank and sang and danced as the TV monitors showed the swirling Death Mass encroaching steadily on our location, the broadcasters looking tired and grave. At one point, my Dad leaned in close and said, "Hey, think you could find me a cigarette?" which was a peculiar request since, to my knowledge, Dad did not smoke. "Sure thing, Dad," I said, intoxicated and happy to have been given a top-secret mission to carry out.

Bolstered by liquid courage, I began shotgun asking everyone in the bar if I could bum a couple of smokes - (and actually using this terminology which seemed romantic for some reason) - eventually meeting a Mexican girl named Lemon (or at least, this is how I believe she introduced herself, but it was difficult to wade through her accent with my senses impaired from the gratuitous amount of rum in my system) who worked at the hotel and knew of a kitchen worker who probably had one or two to spare. She vanished and returned in a minute with two Menthol Lights, which I graciously accepted with a "gracias" and a smile, returning to my father covertly with my objective completed.

We stepped outside onto the deck overlooking the pool, and beyond it the beach and then the ocean. The sky was an inky dark like thick black paint, and waves broke ferociously on the shore with loud crashes that seemed amplified in the already formidable wind. It took us a minute to light our cigarettes, our bodies and hands trying without luck to shield the tiny flame from the gale-force gusts.

"You shouldn't start this," my dad said as we looked out into the claws on the storm, the wind bringing salty water to our lips between drags. "Once you start you'll never stop."

I assured him that I could, that a "one cigarette a month" diet had served to satiated my nicotine appetite throughout college. "Addiction has never really been my thing," I replied, smiling, enjoying the feeling of the elements against my skin and the sound of our voices in the night. Since I'd been in college, we hadn't had many chances to talk; it felt both strange and natural, now, to share a moment with my father as an adult instead of as his son.

"Okay," he said, "I'm just telling you from experience."

We finished our smokes and the sparse conversation, then headed back into the hot bar for more drinks and more dancing.

But Dolly beckoned from somewhere in the dark, drawing closer with each passing hour.  The night was far from over.

The Story of Dolly - Part I

Hurricane Sandy is knocking on the door.  New York is pretending that it's not home.

Shhhh! Turn of the lights, idiot! Who invited her anyway?!

With the impending natural disaster closing in on the Eastern Seaboard, I decided now would be a good time - considering that all public transportation has been postponed, everything (including work) has been cancelled, and I can't even leave the house due to inclimate conditions - to resume my storytelling in The Book of Jommy.

Fitting, then, that this story happens to be about the LAST hurricane I weathered, the current one, Sandy, being the second hurricane that has blustered over me in twice as many years. For someone who hates anything "low-pressure-system" related - rain, snow, the discouraging looks I get when I wear flip-flops in the rain and snow - I sure seem to find myself on the business end of these tropical storms more often that most.

Mother nature has made it clear that my happiness is not really a priority to her.

* * * * * * * * *

The Story of Dolly

My dad makes an effort, I'll give him that. Since we've all grown up, moved out, and spread ourselves around the country, he tries to wrangle his offspring in at least once a year, luring us back to Texas with the promise of relaxing, fun-filled - and more importantly, free - family vacations. And it usually works. Credit to our family, we all manage to see each other at least once a year, scraping together money for plane tickets or gas to make the pilgrimage back to the Lone Star State, encouraged by promises of home-cooking (featuring gratuitous portions of red meat and a refrigerator full of beer), parent-funded entertainment, and, you know, family-togetherness-bonding-lovey-stuff-time.

So when Dad announced, in the Summer of 2008, that his annual medical conference would be held in South Padre Island - hands down the nicest beach in Texas and arguably the classiest of the run-down Gulf Coast resort towns  - my siblings and I were thrilled. This meant lounging on the beach, sleeping in a nice hotel, and eating/drinking/doing whatever we wanted - all with virtually no cost to us. (Thank God my dad had done all that pesky Medical School Physician stuff). 

We would take full advantage of this vacation that we could not ourselves afford but desperately believed we deserved. For me, the year had already been stressful - what with barely graduating from college, trying to avoid confronting "adulthood", and being more poor than I had ever been in my life - and I nursed the conviction that I had earned a few days to unwind on my father's hard-earned dime.

In July, the family - nine of us in total - assembled at my Dad's house in Southeast Texas, piling into two cars and driving the five hours to the small island off the coast of Southern Texas. Crossing the causeway that served as the only passage to the mainland by car, I was taken back to the excitement of my childhood, of seeing the ocean for the first time, of smelling the salty air, of palm trees and gulls and sand between toes. As we pulled into the hotel parking lot, the blue skies and light breeze welcomed us, promising to temporarily relieve us of our responsibilities.

Get me a beer. I'm on vacation.

The first couple days were exactly what every vacation should be: excessive amounts of beach-laying, drinking before noon, overeating, and exploring the shitty souvenir shops within walking distance of the hotel. Nothing overly exciting or crazy happened, but we were all okay with this - no news was good news, so to speak, and it was shaping up to be an enjoyable yet not entirely memorable experience.

Little did we know, it would soon become a vacation none of us would ever forget.

...to be continued

A Winnebago, A Case of Hypothermia, A Viking Funeral (Part III - The Epic Conclusion)

(...the dramatic conclusion...)

My family huddled together for warmth.  Where had this freakin' storm come from?  The blue sky had been replaced by an angry grey, the large flakes whipped around our faces like a swarm of crystalline bees.  It was easily 30 degrees colder here than it was at our "base camp".  Most of us were wearing shorts.  Our bare knees felt the bite of the cold.

"Hey, look at this," yelled my cousin Jolly from a handful of yards ahead of us.  We trudged upward into the wind that was coming down the mountain in waves.  Suddenly, we were standing in front of a beautiful lake, its glassy surface painted ominous shades of grey and black, its frozen edges stretching out a few feet from its shore.  Of course, Mark wanted to be the first to test the strength of the ice.  Ignoring the adults' protests, he eased his 100 lb. figure gently onto the frozen liquid, creeping like a thief, his hands out to his sides, their fingers splayed.

He made it three steps.

"Crack!" went the ice.  "AHHHH!" went Mark.

He had fallen through.  Mark now stood knee-deep in freezing cold lake water, wearing an expression that was half frantic and half bemused, as if he had planned it this way all along.  We dragged him out of the lake, his shoes squishing on the snowy ground as he clambered up the small embankment.  He must have been freezing.  I couldn't tell if he was laughing or crying.

We now had a serious problem: Mark was going to lose his feet unless we could somehow warm him up.  [Why just "going down the mountain" wasn't an option for us then, I'll never know.  I think, like me, my family has a flair for the dramatic; we all like to have a good story to tell.  Mark having his toes amputated would make a fantastic story.]  So, as quickly as possible, we began gathering kindling to make a small fire, our numb fingers snapping dry twigs from trees and pulling up browned grass.  Soon, we had what resembled a respectable fire - only without the actual fire part.

We now had another problem.

"Does anyone have a lighter?" my uncle said.  Nobody in my family smoked.  One of my cousins, remembering something, began tearing through his bag and produced a box of matches...the contents of which were: two matches.

Jack London laughed from somewhere in the wilderness.

"Okay, we only get two shots at this," my uncle said, "so we gotta find a way to make a wind-break or they won't stay lit."  We huddled our bodies close together, spreading out our arms to expand our personal surface areas.  Even with the wall of humans surrounding our tiny would-be fire, the howling wind managed to leak through our arms and legs, changing direction sporadically.  We didn't stand a chance.

Two matches lit, two matches extinguished.  My uncle didn't even have time to light the box before the final one blew out.  His hands were shaking from the cold as he shook his head, resembling a doctor who has just lost a patient on the operating table.  We had failed in our attempt to make a fire.  Mark would surely lose his feet, if not both his legs.  Some of us would probably die.  My dad laid down on the ground, hugging our fluffly golden retriever for warmth.  [To this day, he claims that Tex saved his life on that mountain].  We had dared to challenge nature - our puny bodies vs. the elements of God - and we had failed.

"I guess we should head back down," said my Uncle, actually worried for Mark's toes by this time.  We were giving up; a fate worse than death.  I looked over at my dad, who appeared to be drifting into a hypothermic sleep on the way to death, his fingers buried in Tex's flaxen fur...

* * * * * * * * * *

Needless to say, we made it down alive.  Mark retained his toes, and though we did not reach the summit we still considered the expedition a success.  The rest of the camping trip went well - the RV failed to catch fire, the marshmallows were successfully set ablaze, and some memories were made.  When the books have all been written, it shall go down as one of the best family reunions ever.  

Epilogue:

However, this story - like any good story - is not without tragedy.  Our feathered woodland friend, which we had found injured by the stream just the day before, was not long for this world.  It died shortly after our return, never to grace the forest with its song again.

Mark knew just how to honor our friend.  He placed its delicate body in a small cardboard box, soaked the box in lighter fluid, and held the box in the river with his left hand while lighting the box with his right.  As the flaming box carried our friend out of sight, we observed a moment of silence, our youthful minds momentarily considering the impermanence of life before rushing off to set something else on fire.

A Winnebago, A Case of Hypothermia, A Viking Funeral (Part II)

[...story resumes...]

The first day of our family reunion camping trip was picture-perfect: the tents were erected without incident, hot-dogs were cooked and my uncle (who always seems to have a guitar on him though we never saw him pack it or carry it with him anywhere) played old folk songs as the sparks went up into the purple sky.  It was summer, but at our altitude the night air was chilled.  We wore hooded sweatshirts and sang along to "Tambourine Man" and "Hey Jude".

The next day it rained, though it was not the kind of demanding rain that required our full attention.  It did not come down in sheets and relegate us to cover; in fact, it didn't even seem to come down at all.  Rather, moisture just seemed to explode from every surface, as if the trees and rocks and the ground itself were exuding wetness from somewhere within.  Every now and then a large drop would fall onto a cheek or a shoulder from somewhere high up in the homogenous grey, causing one to look up for fear that it was just a warning shot, that the torrents were soon to be unleashed on our small contingent.  But the assault never came, so we ran around in last-year's tennis shoes and smoke-soaked sweatshirts, smelling the crisp wet conifers, realizing that candle makers and detergent companies (try as they may) don't even come close to capturing the scent.

It was during this aimless exploration that Mark, my cousin one year my younger, found a small bird standing beside the stream.  The bird did not appear injured, but when Mark approached it failed to fly away, and only seemed to be contemplating the water rushing in front of it, wondering what it feels like to swim the way humans wonder what it is to fly.  Not knowing what to do with the small, fearless woodland creature, Mark did what any child does when they find a wild animal that lets them get close enough to touch it: he scooped it up and made it a pet.  We now had a mascot for the trip.  We would earn its trust and nurse it back to health, train it to come when we whistled and feed it sunflower seeds.  It would live in a shoebox.  We had big plans for our forest friend.  

The following day - Day 3 - the sun had burned through the clouds and the air was already hot by early morning.  "Today," announced our Uncles/Fathers with the kind of sadistic joy that only a parent can truly appreciate, "we are going to climb that!", and pointed, dramatically, at the mountain that rested just behind our camp; the Face of God.  We, of course, were giddy.  An actual mountain!?  To CONQUER?!?  We began throwing supplies into backpacks: granola bars, canteens, band-aids, spools of string, wilderness survival manuals.  I debated designing some type of flag on the back of a bandana, a "family crest" we could plant at the summit to let the world know that "yes!  We had been there!  There was no stopping us!  This 12,000 footer was only the beginning!"  Alas, the flag idea was scrapped for lack of time and materials; the memory alone would have to serve as proof that we had scaled the precipice.

It was late morning by the time we got going, sweatshirts tied around waists and plastic water bottles in hand we trudged up the rocky footpath that ran beside the stream, stopping often so the youngest members of our patrol could catch their breath.  Only a few were left back at camp: the women who were unused to sleeping on the ground and thus were too tired for adventure, the grandparents who had already conquered their share of mountains in their lifetimes, the youngest cousins whose little legs were no match for the steady incline and unsure footing.  But the rest of us, energy unending and fueled by the untouched mountain air and unfiltered sunlight, followed the directions of our Uncles/Fathers, walking/running/skipping/jumping/falling behind their tall socks and mid-thigh khaki shorts.  We stopped for photo opportunities and ate trail mix from the hands of older cousins.  The sweat soaked our backs and the spaces behind our knees.

Sometime after noon, we found a clearing in the tree line.  The world opened up then, and we could see what felt like hundreds of miles in all directions.  My younger sister, who (to her credit) had not complained the entire time, took this opportunity to begin throwing up.  "She has altitude sickness," said my dad, visibly torn between taking care of his child and continuing the expedition.  What?!  You can get sick from being too high?!?! I thought.  I had never heard of such an affliction, but I viewed it as a weakness and vowed to never incur its symptoms.  These human bodies are so fragile!

Thankfully, someone volunteered to take my sister back down the mountain to camp, sparing my dad of the chore and allowing us to continue hiking on the now less-visible path which, due to the steepness of the trek, had begun cutting along the side of the mountain instead of attacking it head-on.  Progress was slower now, with more breaks; Up and up we went, the temperature dropping by degrees every couple of minutes.  We donned our sweatshirts and drained our water bottles.

Near what we though was the top, it began snowing.  At this point, we became painfully aware of one fact: We were totally unprepared for this...

[The story concludes on Friday.  Will we make it out alive?  We shall see...]

A Winnebago, A Case of Hypothermia, A Viking Funeral (Part I)

Since Monday's post was indirectly/directly about Aurora, I thought that Colorado needed some good press...as if the the mountain ranges, ski resorts, national parks, and awesomely liberal/artsy/progressive cities don't do a good enough PR job as it is.  Here is one of my favorite memories from the Rocky Mountain State:

* * * * * * *

There was to be a family reunion.

But this wasn't going to be just any typical family reunion, with awkwardly posed photographs and khakis and backyard volleyball (which everyone sucks at) and adults slurring their speech from too many drinks and cousins racing off to secretly test the flammability of household objects.  No, this was going to be a reunion...in the mountains. Camping. In the mountains.  Whoever had concocted this idea was clearly insane.  It would be both epic and a trainwreck.  We couldn't wait.

Of course, my family, living in the Midwest at the time, needed a way to transport ourselves to said reunion, and for whatever reason, flying in an airplane - like normal people who need to cover great distances do - was out of the question.  Perhaps it was because our golden retriever Tex, who undoubtedly had a fear of flying (as all dogs do), was an inextricable member of the family and could not possibly be left behind that my dad decided the best way to travel was to drive there.

But no, not in just any old van!  PSH!

(I can see the conversation now):

Dad: Hey Jane, we need a way to get to Colorado.  Don't you think the kids would have more fun if we went in the minivan...or a MOTOR HOME!?

Mom: I'll get my checkbook.

Thus, seemingly on a whim, my parents purchased a 1980's era Winnebago, complete with brown and beige accents, an "over the driver" sleeping loft (which I claimed as my own), and a non-functioning shower and rarely-functioning toilet.  My sisters and I were ecstatic.  This was going to be the best vacation ever.

[While writing this and other posts, I am slowly beginning to understand where my impulsiveness and sense of adventure comes from.  My parents were maniacs.]

And so, on a hot day in mid-summer, my parents loaded up their newly purchased motor home with a week's worth a bags, their three grade school-aged children, and our golden retriever, and set off across Missouri and then Kansas, driving through the night to save time.  I still remember waking up in Limon, Colorado - though the topography still looking very much like Kansas - as my dad was pumping gas, rubbing his stubbled cheeks with one hand, his eyes looking tired.  The sun was rising over our shoulders to the East, and as everyone else slept I rode shotgun and we listened to one of three Jimmy Buffett cassette tapes dad had brought along for the trip.  I refused to blink as I stared straight ahead, hoping to be the first one to see the faint outline of the mountains in the distance...

Jimmy Sang: "and that's why it's still a mystery to me why some people live like they do..."

We arrived in Colorado Springs sometime that afternoon.  I can't remember how long we stayed, eating deli sandwiches and catching up; all I know is, when it was time to set out for whatever park/campgrounds my uncles had chosen as our destination, the motor home was the desired method of transportation for all of the cousins - nine of us in total (and, of course, Tex).  It was like Chuck-E-Cheese on wheels, but without the ball pit.  I'm surprised my father didn't drug us all with prescription sedatives slipped surreptitiously into our cans of Mountain Dew.  At one point I think he was wearing his green pilot-grade, noise-cancellation headphones, possibly imaging himself driving a bus full of criminally insane primates.

Finally, after hours climbing on everything, "Bago-surfing" (wherein you try to remain standing without touching anything while the RV cornered sharply around narrow mountain passes), playing Uno and eating lots of string cheese, we made it to our campsite.  It was gorgeous; high up in the mountains, surrounded by trees with the brightest shades of green, everything looking ultra-saturated with color and wet, new, alive.  Behind our camp a mountain rose up above the trees, looking down at us like the face of God, inspecting our tents, making sure the fire was properly hedged to prevent escaping.  If we listened closely we could hear the notes of a nearby mountain stream as it tumbled over dark grey rocks on its way to somewhere unknown.  The sky was bright through the leaves overhead, unsure of whether to be blue or grey.  It was one of the most beautiful places I had ever seen.

And this was just the beginning of our adventure...

[Some of us died.  Maybe.  Probably not.  But you should read Monday anyway to just to be sure.]

A Brief Word on Tragedy

It is impossible to write about something so life-altering and terrible without the words using to describe it seeming so trite and ineffective and small.  I do not envy speech writers who are commissioned to pen speeches in the aftermath of tragedies; every phrase must be so carefully chosen, so unquestionably sincere, both poetic and stripped of pretentiousness.  How does one achieve such an ability to empathize when they cannot possibly know the details, the horrors, the never-ending stream of thoughts racing through the minds of those survivors at the epicenter, the waking nightmares that keep sleep at bay like a fire relegating hungry animals to the darkness of the jungle.  How do these writers not sound...fake?

Perhaps it is because I have had brushes with tragedy myself - we all have, in one way or another.  No one gets out of this life without a large collection of scars to show for all the heartbreak we are required to endure as payment for being human.  But just as anyone who has lived through hell will tell you: there is nothing you can say - nothing will sound comforting or real or helpful at all - unless you are going through hell with them.  Even if you have gone through the exact same thing, it doesn't matter; your words will sound hollow to the afflicted, empty and useless.  You cannot possibly know the depth of their misery (or so they believe at the time), so anything you say will be taken with a "aw, you tried" smile, a hug, and probably some inappropriate joke to diffuse the awkwardness.  

[Small aside: One of my favorite lines from Dave Eggers "A Heartbreak Work of Staggering Genius" is, when the narrator tells other characters that his parents have died, they inevitably say, "Oh, I'm so sorry," to which he responds, "It's okay, it's not your fault," and then narrows his eyes at them suspiciously and says, "or is it?"  Humor is a great coping mechanism.]

But, in the face of tragedy, we have to say something, right?  We, as outsiders - who cannot possibly understand the ways in which such an event has torn everyone around it to shreds - can't just stand there dumbly, at a total loss.  We always feel the need to comfort, to lend a piece of our unbroken hearts, to (God-forbid) relate in some way.  (For the record, if a person divulges to you that they have recently gone through something awful, never try to empathize by telling them of your own personal tragedy.  We know, we know, you are trying to help, but it comes across as classless one-up-man-ship, and the suffering person will probably hate you or strike you with something, or possibly both.)  Unfortunately, it is in these dire circumstances, when those around us have lost everything, that I see people at their best, that the core of humanity shines brightest.  We do not know what to say or what to do and we are so...powerless...to help you in any way.  But we feel your pain - even if it's just an echo or a glimmer, just 1000th of the hurt you must feel - and we are connected to you through this experience.

I have been broken before too.  I know you don't think the hurting will end.  But it will get better, someday.  I promise it will.

* * * * * * * *

Our friends in Colorado have endured their fair share of tragedy lately.  I cannot possibly know what those who have lost their homes in the wildfires or what the friends and families of the victims of Aurora are going through, so I will follow my own advice and not even attempt to comment.  (Whatever I would attempt to say would just sound so...unworthy).  If you pray, please pray for them.  If you think, keep them in your thoughts.  If you have money, donate.  If you have a heart, send love their way.  We, as people, are separated by such trivial things like race and class and geography and religion, but are connected by something much more powerful; our ability to love and to hurt, to fully embrace the joy and pain that is uniquely human.

We are not so different.  We do not know you, but we love you.  We were put here to help, to share in this pain.  You do not have to do it by yourself.  We know you are strong; you have nothing to prove to us.  We hurt for you, Colorado.

It will get better.

image by my cousin, Mark Rantal

Why I Hate Hipsters

"God, I hate hipsters."

We were laying in the back of our rented paddleboat, drifting captainless around the small man-made lake while the sun glared down on our bare shoulders and collarbones, focusing its gaze like a magnifying glass on only us.  The sound from the nearby fountains - each one shooting water thirty feet in the air, the light bending through their mist creating rainbows - reached our ears in a whisper like static, punctuated by the occasional unintelligible yell from a child standing on the shore.  We let our legs dangle into the cool water, green-brown and throwing off colors as it undulated.  My jeans were rolled, soaked to the knee, while your eyes caught pieces of the sun and held them in, exposing hues that have yet to be named.  Above us, on the hill, the Museum watched sullenly, its white skin looking tired against the vibrant blue sky of late afternoon.  

It seemed like a good time to vent.

"They go to these shows, stand in the pit with their arms crossed looking bored," I ranted, "and then have the audacity to confront me when I accidentally bump into them while I'm - God forbid! - enjoying the music I paid to see and showing support for a band that is pouring their hearts out for everyone on stage!"  I was incensed.  "I mean, why the hell are they even at the show in the first place?!  Did they lose a bet?  Is some deranged psychopath holding their family hostage in a basement pit somewhere a la "Silence of the Lambs" threatening to make coats out of their skin unless hipster-douche here goes to see Motion City Soundtrack?!  I don't understand!  If the hate the music so much, why immerse themselves in it and pay $15 to do so?!?"

This is something I feel strongly about.  Can you tell?

I realize, (begrudgingly of course), that hipsters are necessary in today's flash-fried, attention deficient society, where trends and styles change weekly and must therefore be constantly discovered, embraced, reevaluated and discarded to make room for the "new and unknown."  Hipsters are not just at the front of the race; they are completely finished with the race you are running, have determined that your race is lame, and have moved on to something much cooler, like rollerblading on water with rocket skis (or something equally ridiculous).  They set fashion trends: the clothes you are wearing right now, how ever stylish and "cutting-edge" you think you may be, were probably worn by some hipster in Williamsburg three years ago.  (The same hipster, should they see you on the street today wearing style so old it is almost cool again, would probably interact with you as if you had leprosy).  They determine the music that we as a culture embrace.  (I don't even know what hipsters listen to nowadays.  How does one find out?  Wait two years and then listen to an indie, underground radio station - these songs were on some hipster's itunes long before they reached your ears.  In three years, it might even be on mainstream radio, but by this time the hipsters will have such passionate hatred toward the artist that you should never bring them up in conversation unless you want a PBR thrown in your face).      

Although 90% of what hipsters do, say, wear, and listen to is completely and totally fucking absurd, the 10% that manages to eek through will - given enough time for the masses to stupidly drag their collective consciousness onto the next movement (in music, fashion, art, whatever) - undoubtedly become an enormous cultural trend that is lost on our parents, sneered at by those who have already done it and moved on, and exploited to sickening degrees by everyone else.  Hipsters are like spirit makers, but the alcohols they produce are far too strong and bitter for the casual consumer; they must be distilled, ruthlessly rectified, cleansed and made bland for mass consumption.  Very few can handle the potency of 100% Pure Grain Hipster.

You seem to be deviating from your thesis.  I thought you said you hated hipsters.  You seem to be praisi-

Okay!  You're right!  I guess I see their merit.  I suppose they have their place.  If the captains of this giant, trendsetting ship are MTV, Urban Outfitters and Spin Magazine, then the hipsters are the ones speaking softly in their ear, urging them to turn the clumsy, slow-moving, rusty boat in the direction of their choosing, guiding us all through a sea of endless cultural possibilities.  

"I guess I just harbor a lot of animosity," I said, your head resting on my lap, my fingers tangling in your hair.  "I mean, I've been on the other side of it.  I've been on stage, have played for crowds where no one is moving, no one is showing the least bit of interest at all.  It really sucks, it just breaks you down.  If nothing else, at least show some support for some local kids trying to contribute to the scene, to put something creative and artistic out into this world.  But no, you're too cool to shift your weight, to take your hands out of your pockets, to clap after a song.  What the fuck are you doing?!

And this is what I hate.

I do not hate you, hipsters, because you have opinions and you are judgmental and because you dress like homeless Rufio from the movie "Hook" (if Rufio had an iphone).  I do no hate you because you like shit I have never heard of, and when I do hear of it you will speak of said liked things as if they are an STD that you are glad to be rid of.  No, I hate you because - at least in the Midwest - you stand on your pedestals and soapboxes and, from your position of superior height, you criticize others who are trying to create something.  You crucify local bands, even lash national acts; but when was the last time you got onstage with a guitar or cut an EP on Garageband in your basement?  You talk mad shit about gallery openings; but when was the last time you had paint caked under your fingernails?  You are cowards, metaphorically mowing down  peasants with machine guns from perceived helicopters.  You contribute nothing and thus risk nothing, but somehow feel that you have earned the right to give your stamp of approval or rejection on everything, giving not a thought to the effort, art, sweat, and heart that went into whatever it is you have leveled your sights on.  We have given you power because we believe that you know something we don't; but you are just like us, just lost kids trying to find their way.  No, you are less that we are.    

You are unworthy in my eyes, just as I may be in yours.  But at least I am trying.  

What have you got to show for yourself?