I doused the volume on the rare mono Fats Domino recording I was listening to, without the irony of this particular musical choice even crossing my mind. You see, I am probably apt to go days or even a few weeks without interacting with a single person of color. Not by any malevolently purposeful decision on my part, but just because by the sheer choice of my aesthetic I have decidedly cut the color, so to speak, from my social circle. Your average black man doesn't wear skinny jeans (his 'nads typically don't fit), and I couldn't tell you the last time I spoke to a person who wasn't wearing skinny jeans. I mean, flares? Do they even sell those anymore? And the baggy fit jeans are totally unacceptable. And I'm not sure I would care to venture to the side of town where baggy fit jeans are sold, for fear of what the other patrons might be concealing in them, besides larger 'nads than mine.
Digression aside, hipsters, dude. Fucking hipsters. You can observe them at any stop light on their fixies, ardently refusing to put their fucking feet down while they wait for the light. This dude's there, twitching and squirming on top of his torquoise and gold bike with the matching rims--pretending it isn't a bother to do so, with the ground and a pair of feet so readymade and accessible for just such an occasion. These people are everywhere, with their assortment of scarves, asymmetrical hair, and retarded little bicycler caps with the too-small brims, one pants leg rolled up, and more often than not, a moustache.
Moustaches. Ruined. Formerly a stately, defined look for a man of fashion, now relegated only to these queers, who refuse to trim it correctly, grease it up into some sort of grotesque handlebar, and salute each other with the like of, "Nice 'stache, bro," pretending it's still ironic, like they hadn't just seen two or three dozen others with the exact same fucking lip-doo.
I suppose like any rant, this doesn't really have to go anywhere, though I'm trying like hell to make it.
At any rate, I think I can sum up the degree of retardation in an anecdotal observation I made just yesterday. I was at a coffee shop, eating a sandwich (a fish sandwich, because aside from the fact that I do not eat meat, I would fear for my hipster credentials if I were to dare to order anything with meat on it at one of these cookie-cutter coffeeshop/bar/hipsterposts), .... (breath) ... when I overheard the coffee shop clerk (the hipster occupation of choice, aside from vintage clothing store staff, or DJ) remark to a young woman that Topo-Chico was, in his considerable opinion, by far the BEST mineral water to be had.
This, no doubt, is accounted for by the ultra hip bubbles used to make Topo-Chico by several little brown people several hundred miles south of us who have never before in their lives seen a pair of shutter shades.
These aesthetic choices we make, with absolutely no basis in fact or reality, decorate our lives (certainly for the better), and occupy our minds like shiny little Christmas balls. It's an aesthetic choice. This is illustrated no better than the fact that last year at this time they all had 'Save Darfur' or something equally droll emblazoned in faux-antiqued print across their American Apparel tees. This year, it's 'I'm With Coco.'
