I’ve always had a knack for knowing when to leave the party…just before I broke the family crystal, made out with hostess’ nephew, or just plain old wore out my welcome. I feel it was the same with moving. If I’d stayed in Lexington five more minutes, I would have been exposed as not nearly hip enough to live there in downtown.
1) I hate riding a bike. I bought a Cruiser, named her Zelda (after Madam Fitzgerald, of course), and headed out on several occasions to procure the pleasures of peddling. It never happened. Every turn of the spokes filled me with fear of scraping all of the skin from my face and onto the concrete.
2) I don’t give a damn about the roast of my coffee. Folgers is fine.
3) When I grow bangs, instead of looking like I could have been with Andy Warhol when he painted his iconic Campbell’s Soup, I look like the little moonfaced boy that used to be in the ads for Campbell’s Soup.
4) I’ve never eaten Sriracha, the cool condiment that all the hipster’s substitute for ketchup.
5) I am horrified of chickens, and could never sleep soundly knowing they were just outside my window in a coop of my own making.
6) The Farmer’s Market with its fresh produce and fancy cheese and homemade pasta intimidates the hell out of me. Refer to earlier blog on Hippiorganicaphobia.
7) To me, IPA is an acronym for Icky Pissy Ale. Instead of waging the battle between a “6” with a star or a “9” with a starburst, I would keep one, flip the other, and add a third, so the label would have “666” with a goat’s skull and crossbones.
8) The hottest yoga I’ll ever do is on the dock in August.
And that, my friends, sums up why I will, unapologetically, never be hip.
the bourbonistA, Promoting Debauchery and stamping out political-correctness one blog at a time.