I'm sitting, the bare backs of my legs in their skirt stuck to the white vinyl couch, on a night that feels like it should be a Friday but isn't. Everything is done, it just needs to get turned in, and then it will officially be summer. Which would be good news, if I hadn't just found out I was denied the state support I was expecting for the next couple of months. I can't really get hired, work a month, quit, and work somewhere else another month, now can I? I could take out a loan, but that would only add to the endless swamp of despair (and debt) I expect to be wading through in the not too distant future. I have confidence in my ability to overcome the swamp, but this part really bites. I'm going to try not to dwell on it too much, by changing the subject.
Jude is sitting next to me, autographing trading cards of himself. It is completely ridiculous. I envy the lifestyle, paying the rent with little masterpieces, but it would never work out. I'd always want to do my own thing and never what anyone else wanted. And I prefer to illustrate myself anyway. Didn't I want to do a comic at some point? I'll get around to it maybe eventually. We came across a piece of his other art this evening - the non-commercial, the personal - and I've fallen in love with the expressiveness of it, screen printed to some blank page in the back of my mind forever, and with everything else about him. And I want to steal the notebook we found it in. But I'll probably content myself with sneaking glances at it when he's not looking.
And now for something completely different. Do you ever put your iPod on shuffle and just let it go? And then sometimes a song comes on that you hadn't heard in a while, that belongs on a mixtape you need to make, or already did and forgot about, and it makes you smile? Yeah. I love those moments. Yo La Tengo, You Can Have It All, first experienced at a party at Ashley's house back a million years ago in a winter backyard, back when everyone thought Rich and Ashe were dating and before they knew how absurd a thought that was. Included on the mix, Songs for Rain.
Rich always has the best music. If I had to come up with one person that had influenced my musical taste the most overall, since of course childhood when Dad bestowed upon me the gift of the Beatles, it would be Rich, hands down. He always has something new and interesting for me. And he's the one that got me started making mixtapes. He and I spent a whole day together once in the cafe of Yardley Starbucks, making the cover art and the liner notes for Steph's going away present. At first I was intimidated by his swanky style and discerning taste, but I realized eventually that even dandies and hipsters look up to someone when they decide what is and isn't good enough for them. I downloaded everything Rich mentioned in passing or played in the car, and fell in love with all my new favorite bands one by one, until one day I was looking for new things and recommending music to other people myself - you should check out the Lacrosse album, on that note. And that's when I started making mixtapes. But I will never be a hipster. Assholes.
Actually, the people that I think of as hipsters, the ones I know anyway - and I guess really this is part of the game - always say, "I don't know why people call me that." Because you don't like being labeled, you unique fucking snowflake! You, in your thrift store togs and converse all-stars, touting your natural vegan ways, riding your fixie while you listen to mixtapes you traded to other assholes on the internets. My favorite attitude on this will always be, "Fuck you. I'm gonna drink my PBR and smoke my American Spirits 'til I die." That's right, you tell 'em, girlfriend. I like some of the coda of the hipster lifestyle, and when Urban Outfitters put out a line of bi-cycles, you can bet I wanted one, but something about the idea of not shaving and using that bullshit Tom's deodorant that doesn't deodorize shit doesn't appeal to me. I'm more like a teeny-hipster. Or a hippertini. People that know a lot of hipsters but aren't in the club. They shop at Urban and American Apparel, but also at the Gap. They ride a bike, but it's not a cool fixie. They don't own a record player, but they do have everything Apple has ever made. They take polaroid pictures. Their hair is not cut asymmetrically. And they still smell good. That's me. If I walked up to a pack of hipsters in a cafe, they'd know - they'd sniff me, question me about my band t-shirt, remark that they'd only gone to that show for the opening act, and turn their noses up with a sulky sway of their collective hips.
The password to get in is nothing - I'm supposed to act like I don't care, but I'd rather tell them all to screw off.
Actually, cafe people aren't that bad, especially the boys. The ones at Saxby's, which is the only tolerable cafe on campus, are pretty tolerant of hippertinis so long as they are not trying to pretend to be hipsters. They play good music, and they delight in telling you about it if you ask, but they sure as hell spend every free minute standing around with their arms crossed judging people. I make sure to smile, and I've been meaning to drop off a copy of the CD I bought from the last opening act I talked to them about. I'm not trying to get into the club, I'm a genuinely friendly person, and generous where I can be.
And on that note, I made my sister a mix right before I left South Carolina, and I know she found it because she moved it out of the way, and didn't say a word to me. Jerk. Maybe she's the type that gets all embarrassed when people give them things - which I do - and feels awkward bringing it up. Or maybe she just forgot. I will be sure to ask her about it later in front of a group of people.
I think maybe I will start inventing words like Jude says he used to do, and like they do on How I Met Your Mother. Terms for things we just haven't thought of yet, but that we could all use. Everything has a name, whether we want it to or not, it's just a matter of human ingenuity coming up with the best way to express it. Sometimes it's just a certain way you smile when you're just so happy you could burst and you want to tell someone about it but there's nothing to say so you just smile. I haven't got a word for it, but you'll know what I mean when I do it. I do it a lot lately.
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