Inauguration Day

As promised, I spent some time in Williamsburg yesterday afternoon to celebrate the inauguration of our 44th president, Barack Obama. Williamsburg was majestic as always, and my fellow hipsters indeed seemed to be in a festive mood--instead of their usual sullen and slouched demeanor, their heads were held high, and they even nodded (and occasionally smiled!) as they passed each other on the streets. It was all quite inspiring! Change I could indeed believe in!

I walked immediately to a dive bar I had read about online located near the Lorimer stop. As I approached, I saw a fellow hipster sitting outside the bar, which I found quite unusual, given the cold weather. He was perhaps in his early 30's, with artfully disheveled brown hair that he blew carelessly away from his face as I got closer, and was well-protected against the elements, having taken layering to an extreme level. He wore no fewer than 6 different shirt of varying thickness, with the outermost layer consisting of an oversized t-shirt which read "Special Olympics." The entire ironic package (including what I believe were tattered orange shoes that reminded me of those designed for skate boarders) was quite a remarkable example of hipster fashion, I thought to myself.

Cognizant of the new, more friendly attitude hipsters were taking towards one another, I greeted him, and inquired as to whether he was excited about the inauguration. He mumbled something that I couldn't quite make out in response, but I distinctly heard the word "Change" in his answer, and thus encouraged, I sat down next to him. He companionably made room for me, then mumbled something, of which I only caught the words "drink" and "cold." Thinking this mumbling was perhaps a new hipster trend, I quickly adopted his lingo, inserting the words "Obama" and "Inauguration" into a stream of gibberish. He seemed impressed by my quick grasp of the vernacular, and invited me in to the bar for a drink. Either that, or he asked me to buy him a drink, but either way, I was quite sure he wanted to go in to the bar, which was just as well since I was not quite as well-prepared for the cold weather as my new hipster friend. Concrete is cold!

I readily accepted, and he sprung spryly to his feet. I imagine you know me well enough by now, gentle readers, to guess that I felt quite proud of myself for having made such a successful entry to the hipster inaugural celebration! I held the door open for him, and he immediately procured a table in the mostly empty barroom. I headed to the bartender, and asked him for two hot toddies. He was, apparently, not as practiced in hipsterease (as I began calling it in my head) as I, and asked me to repeat myself three times before I finally abandoned the argot and asked him in plain Queen's English for two hot toddies.

When I returned to our table with drinks in hand, I couldn't help but notice that my new friend had fallen asleep! Undoubtedly, I thought to myself, he had been partying excessively before I had arrived (which would also explain his rather pungent breath), and the warmth inside the bar had lulled him to sleep. I mumbled to him that the drinks had arrived, and handed him the toddy, which he gulped down with astonishing speed. Before I could so much as begin to discuss the finer points of Infinite Jest or the latest Animal Collective album with him, he had leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes again. Thinking this was perhaps the "hip" thing to do in mostly empty dive bars (after all, I told myself, one must conserve one's energy when one can if one plans to party all night), I plugged my nose, downed my toddy, and followed suit.

Before I so much as got comfortable, I was rudely shaken by the bartender, who told me, if you can believe it, to take myself and my "bum friend" out of his bar. At this point, the few other patrons, hipsters all, were looking at us with what I took for intense interest. Mindful of the audience, I rose to my feet, and indignantly defended my friend, explaining that he was hardly a bum, but rather a fine example of your modern-day hipster, and that not only did he likely have a home in the form of an artist's loft, but a trust fund to boot! Unfortunately, I explained all this in hipsterease, which as you'll undoubtedly remember, our bartender did not speak. All he seemed to pick up from my speech was the word "hipster," and it seemed that he took it for an insult, as he responded by saying, "I'll show you a fucking hipster, asshole," then he bodily dragged me to the door and tossed me outside, followed shortly by my new friend.

As we dusted ourselves off, I couldn't help but notice that my friend did indeed bear some of the mannerisms common to one who was homeless: the few-days growth of beard, initially taken for disaffected scruffiness, now seemed the result of having neither hot water nor a razor; the the ripped jeans not a fashion statement but a necessity; the odor coming from him not an environmental statement against deodorent's chemicals, but rather the lack of access to a shower.

Suddenly I felt like quite the fool, and apologized to the homeless man for having mistaken him for a hipster. He was quite gracious, and (I'm fairly certain) thanked me profusely for the drink, and settled himself back into his original position against the bar. Meanwhile, I began castigating myself mentally for the error, and hoped--futilely, as I shortly discovered--that the bar's other patrons were ALSO bums instead of hipsters, as that would have negated the impact of my gaffe.

As I started to trudge away from the bar, the door swung open and two hipsters (I was quite certain they were hipsters and not homeless people, as one clutched a laptop to his chest and the other wore a Swatch; fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me!) emerged. I squared my shoulders, ready to accept their abuse manfully.

"Hey," said the one holding the laptop.
"Hey," I mumbled back.
"That was hilarious," said the other, with no expression whatsoever.

At this point, I paused, wondering if they were perhaps playing some cruel trick on me. Either that or they thought I had intentionally invited the homeless man in as some sort of joke. Quickly deciding on a course of action that would suit either scenario, I simply shrugged, then turned to walk away.

"Was that, like, performance art?" asked the Swatch one. I turned again, a faint flicker of joy budding in my chest.

"Yeah," I said, quickly dropping the mumbling and instead adopting their deadpan deliveries.

"Cool."

I had garnered a "cool" from a bonafide hipster! Containing my excitement, I shrugged again, then asked, "What do you do?"

"I make hats," he said, pointing at his own, which had red crosshairs superimposed over a yellow truck.

"Cool," I said.

"So, like, did you advertise at all or anything?"

"No," I said, thinking quickly, "I want the audience to be surprised. You know how Found Art is just made up of random objects? Well, I want my audience to, uh, be found. I call it 'Found Audience.'"

Both sets of hipster eyebrows raised as one. "Found Audience," said the laptop hipster.

"Cool," said the Swatch one.

Needless to say, dear readers, I wanted to shout my joy to the world! Instead, I shrugged again, said "Later," then walked to the L train. Not only had I survived what could have been a fatal gaffe, I had carved out a niche for myself in the hipster world! I was a Found Audience Artist!

Barack Obama

I suppose, since it is after all Inauguration Weekend, that I should at least briefly touch on politics, even though it is not something I've considered much since my days as a Young Republican. In fact, 2008 marks the first election year that I have not submitted an absentee ballot bearing the write-in, "Ming the Merciless" (while he could be quite brutal, one could hardly argue with his success as a leader; I imagine being President of the United States would be quite easy after having been Emperor of the Universe!). In truth, even as a Young Republican, I was more interested in their natty attire, posh cocktail parties and, I am chagrined to confess, the distinct whiff of old money one caught when lunching with them. At the time, my interest was quite sincere, but upon reflection, I had been blinded by their wealth, and their close-mindedness and latent hostility did not become apparent to me until they mistakenly took me for a homosexual. I tried to explain that I was quite straight, and even offered to conclusively prove my sexual orientation with our president's delightfully flapper-esque girlfriend (whom I'm certain would have been amenable; she often seemed as taken with me as she was bored with him. When inebriated, she engaged me in long conversations about non-YR approved music, the United States' unfair drug laws, and my days as a Rasti. Although upon reflection, it's possible that she was asking me in a roundabout way for marijuana. Hm. Either way, she was entirely unsuitable for our jack-booted President, and I rather imagine she is now a hipster in some urban mecca, perhaps even sporting a mustache!). At any rate, they did not receive this offer in the spirit in which it was intended, and quite literally chased me out of their association.

Fortunately, their persecution ensured my acceptance into the Lesbian-Gay-Bisexual-Transexual community, who were quite sweet, but who as I discovered later, labored under the same misconception. I'm not quite sure why I make this impression; I dress entirely appropriately to the subculture with which I identify (which in some cases has been rather similar to homosexual attire), and while I do occasionally use words such as "gay" and "queer" in the classical sense, I hardly think that alone should be evidence of gayness. Quite the opposite, in fact! One would have thought as well that the L/G/B/Ts would have finely honed "gaydars" and would be able to see in an instant that I do not share their predilictions; one would, however, be sadly mistaken. When I attempted to purge them of their misunderstanding, they said they knew what I was going through and would "be there" for me if I ever changed my mind. It was all quite confusing.

But I digress. In terms of our forthcoming president, I am optimistic. In addition to his youth and style, he is quite articulate, although those are not the only reasons I broke my streak of "Ming the Merciless" votes; no, due credit goes to the young Obama supporter I saw shouting obscenities at an octogenarian bearing a John McCain button. In addition to being quite lovely in her rage (homosexual, indeed!), she was breathtakingly inventive. If all she had called him was an "inebriate fascit f***" she likely would have won my vote for Obama, but that turned out to be only her opening salvo! Before it was all said and done, the object of her ire (whom from context I believe must have said something about stricter language regulation of the film and music industry) had turned an ashen gray and looked about ready to collapse to the ground! Had it not been for her cane, in fact, I think she might have. After our young heroine was done, I attempted to tell her of her success converting me into an Obama supporter (and, truth be told, ask her out for a hot toddy) but I believe she thought I was "yanking her chain," as it were, because she cut me off with an invective (a somewhat dissapointing one, to tell the truth, but one can hardly blame her for being a bit drained just seconds after completing such a virtuoso performance).

All in all, I do think Tuesday will be a splendid occasion; I fully intend on spending as much of it as possible in Williamsbug, celebrating with my fellow hipsters! Assuming, that is, that they will be celebrating; I get the impression that they approve of Obama, but they are sometimes a bit understated/ironic about their heroes. I shall have to be prepared to modify my "Huzzah's!" to "cool's" or, if necessary, even indifferent shrugs . . .