***13***
Oh God. You have no idea how much I hate being late with this column. I’m not making excuses, but it comes fourth behind work, school, and Stars. First, work.
I spent the last four months not working so that I could write some Teachers’ College applications, and hopefully get a, you know, career. So now that they’re all in the mail I can go back to flipping Crepes and eggs for really hot women. I have no idea why our restaurant attracts so many pretty girls. I really don’t. But there you go.
And besides, I just got my first rejection letter from Japan. It’s not teachers’ college, but it’s still rejection. And no matter how minuscule, rejection hurts.
No, this chapter isn’t about rejection. Just that part. This chapter is about how life gets in the way of progress, but at the same time progress isn’t exactly the most important thing.
Second, school. Last week was my exam week. That would be fine if they didn’t book two of my exams today. The day after the Stars concert. At EIGHT AM.
So Charlotte and I went to Stars last night. It was a great show. Anyone who hasn’t heard them yet needs to. They’re a great mixture between Death Cab For Cutie, Leonard Cohen, Sonic Youth, and Aimee Mann. It was their last of six consecutive shows, they were drunk as hell, and it was too easy to tell that everything they did was completely genuine.
And then the seven song encore. At the beginning of it, they said they would “sing until they couldn’t sing anymore.” And then they did. It was great. And Charlotte was great.
The opening band was something weird. I don’t even know if I can call them a band. It was seven senior citizens with their banjos and spoons singing Christmas carols. And they were being completely serious about it. Not serious like Ja Rule serious, more serious like 50 Cent serious. The weird thing about this was not them, however, it was the crowd.
Lee’s Palace that night was teeming with 20 something hipsters, I suppose myself and Charlotte included. There were probably 300 people in there, and for the most part everyone stood silent and watched. A few nodded their heads. We were pretty much in shock. I mean, really, what the f*ck?I’m serious. If the people on stage would have come to my house I would have given them eggs. Eggs without Easter paint. And here they were on stage in front of a sea of long scarfs and short skirts, without so much as a smirk of sarcasm from anyone.
Well, anyone but us. But we’re mean like that, I guess.
And then, today, it dawned on me. The hipsters in the crowd couldn’t have been actually enjoying a bunch of senior carolers by any sort of traditional math, that much is true. But my expectation of these people were completely wrong. The life of a hipster is one drenched in irony at all times. I’m guilty of this for the most part. This is why everyone acted as if there were any other opener up there. Openly laughing or mocking the band wouldn’t be ironic, it would be genuine. And being genuine is pretty much off limits in the world of the hipster.
I guess I’m disqualified from being in the official club. That’s okay. I never made a profile at makeoutclub.com anyway.
Anyways, that explains why this column is late. Again. Three times in a row now. I’m getting pathetic. But it’s okay, because I’m being genuine about being sorry about it. I actually worry about this shit when I’m running around doing other things.
And very soon, I’m going to make you an offer that’ll make up for it. In a few weeks, I’m going to do a little create-your-own-adventure thing. I hope people participate. I really do, because if they don’t then I’ll put on some black rimmed glasses and cry for a while in my room with the record player and the Bright Eyes LP’s. You don’t want that. Nobody does.
I’m sorry. Life gets in the way of things I really like doing. Like this column. Like my new book. Like my old book, which might have a little bit of life left in it after all. We’ll see.
I wonder if Inside Pulse would advertise my book if I got it published? These are the kind of things I think about when I’m not running around. I’m always jumping between the idea that I’m an exciting and the reality that I’m probably pretty boring.
I had this conversation with a friend the other day about not seeing one another forever, and it was completely my fault, and she basically told me straight out that I had chosen other things over her, and that’s how it was. And she was right.
Life can get in the way of all the things you wanted to do. If someone could hurry up on that multiverse that 70’s psychedelia promised us, that would be nice. I would appreciate that. I don’t know why, but I’ve had the desire to be many different people living many different lives all at once ever since I was fifteen. Apparently it’s the Diaspora. Even though I don’t really qualify for it, even though I’ve moved more than anyone I know.
Life can get in the way of the things you really want to do. Like go to Japan. Or Winnipeg. Or London. Or Calgary. Or Cincinnati, if only so I could meet the folks at WOXY. They’re the future of rock and roll, don’t ya know. And f*ck that pop tart guy; they’re the only ones that get to say BAAAAAM.
