Which Hipster Are You?

So today, whilst briefly perusing the glorious interwebs as I sought respite from my continual slaving over the mountains of legal arbeit resting at my finger tips, I managed to squeeze in the time to take a little quiz called, "Which Hipster Are You?"

Consisting of a handful of all-too-telling questions pulled from the wonderfully descriptive annals of Josh Aiello's A Field Guide To the Urban Hipster, the quiz delighted me by answering, appropriately, which hipster I am, indeed. Please see below:

Indie Rockers
Audiophilum Integria

Indie Rockers are sexually clumsy creatures. Their mating dance is an intricate yet ineffectual cocktail of lapsed intimacy, misread gestures, arcane trivia, and hero worship. [continued on page 184 of the book]

Clearly, this book needs to be in my awkwardly referential possession.

An Ill-Conceived Lavoratorial Alliance

I guess every office has this issue, at least I would hope they do. Knowing that my building is singularly responsible for one of the most awkward human interactions ever performed would simultaneously make my chest swell with pride, and cause me to weep bitter tears of frustrated confusion. But I digress.

I have “Bathroom Buddies”. I didn’t want them, but they seemed to have found me and begun to cling to my person. Not in a parasitic fashion, mind you, but in the way that one girl in Junior High always clung to your group of friends. You know, the one with the funny red-framed glasses that went out of fashion in 1976, and the Mork ‘n’ Mindy t-shirt paired with pastel suspenders? With her hair in pigtails and sporting bangs that were basically waving their arms around and yelling, “Sweet Christ, can you tease me any larger!?”. That girl. The one you tolerated but secretly made fun of when she wasn’t around? Yeah, that’s kind of like what my bathroom Buddies do to me. I guess it’s sort of a reversal of fortune in a sense as I pretty much was that girl in Junior High. But ANYWAYS, “Bathroom Buddies”.

A “Bathroom Buddy” is much like what Turk and Dr. Cox became in that one episode of Scrubs (although Turk dubbed them “Pee Buddies”, but for the sake of copyright infringement I won’t use that phrase). It’s a person that, for some unexplained cosmic reason whose purpose is known solely by that higher power that orchestrates our lives, always ends up in the bathroom at the same time as you. It’s that one person who, no matter what time of day you sidle out of your cubicle and saunter into the bathroom always ends up in the stall next to you within thirty seconds of you locking that unfriendly metal door and placing the protective synthetic seat cover over that porcelain vestibule of germs and disease.

I, however fortunate you may deem this to be, seem to have acquired two “Bathroom Buddies” to accompany me through those most private duties. The first BB is the A.M. Buddy; a lawyer from next door who always looks pissed off and applies a ludicrous amount of gel to her waist length curly hair. She’s a Cougar-In-Training who, as I learned, saw the midnight showing of Sex In The City. She and I will never be real friends outside of our ill-conceived Lavoratorial Alliance. Also, she wears flower print skirts and pantsuits, two things by which I can never abide.

The second BB, the P.M. Buddy, is one of my superiors at work. This makes for “the awkward” on several levels. One, it provides said superior with ample opportunity to strike up the dreaded “chit-chat” over what I had foolishly hoped were lead lined, sound proof stall walls. I must say, it is downright impossible to hold a comfortable conversation with a superior over the cold and unfeeling barrier of a bathroom stall. Firstly, these walls are constructed primarily to prevent such breaches of privacy and to allow the user of said stall some sense of security as they sit with their rear fully exposed to the basin within which lurks God knows what bacteria and killer clowns. Secondly, who ever decided it was ok to chat within the safe confines of a bathroom? Granted, females are notorious for chatting away whilst in the bathroom, but why can we not instill the same etiquette found in the men’s room? Silence, and no eye/vocal/physical contact whilst doing your business. Waiting for a stall? Oh my goodness I LOVE your shoes/hair/nail polish/shirt. Washing hands? Fine, ask how my day is. Drying hands? Excellent, yes I have seen the most recent episode of (fill in the blank with whatever chick-type show is airing right now). Using the toilet to do my business? Iron curtain of silence, thank you very much.

The second reason why having my P.M. Buddy being my superior is awkward is this: The bathroom is an escape from my cubicle, office, co-workers and thought of the work I have/have not done. The bathroom should be a place of zen-like atmosphere, not a secondary water cooler location. I do not want to discuss So-and-So’s outfit, or Whatshernames job performance. Also, I enjoy having a bit of mystique about me in the office. The questioning looks and whispers that linger when I show up to work obviously hung-over and very pleased with myself are entertaining, yet when my superior joins me in the bathroom and asks me, “So, how was YOUR night last night?” This is something I do not enjoy.

All this having been said, dearest Bathroom Buddies, let us draw up a schedule of times and place them on a constant rotation so as to not meet each other for said awkward interaction. And, should we ever meet in that most sacred of water closets, please do not hide in the stall until I have left. I am not ashamed of my duties in the bathroom, and neither should you be. Especially when you are in the handicapped stall on the cell phone with your significant other. Trust me, we’ve all tucked ourselves away to have a private conversation, but I promise you the bathroom is probably not the best locale for said activity. For one, it echoes quite horribly in there, and for two…just…no. Don’t do it.

Childhood Myths, Part the First

Remember those days, in the middle of some silly childlike antic, giggling our way through a paste eating revelry, a thorough nose picking, face pulling activity when the mortal enemy of childhood stepped in like a dictatorial douche and uttered a sentence that instilled such horror in our tiny ossificating bones which most likely scarred us for life; or passed onto us some sliver of carnal knowledge meant to enlighten our feeble pulsing brains? With an almost fiendish glee, that adult seemed to treasure every moment they were able to make childhood a slightly more terrifying/magical place than it was before all the while enabling our prepubescent imaginations to run amok in a glorified frenzy of fright and wonder. These are the childhood myths that we, in our adulthood, shall willfully pass on to our own offspring in an attempt to continually make the world a moreso enchanting, albeit slightly horrifying place. But what are these myths, and how should they be instilled? What effects do they have on the child? Surely, no lingering fear can be brought about by the "monster in the closet"? Truly, the Tooth Fairy is a figure of fantastical whimsy and not a societal divider of the classes?

Myth 1: The Tooth Fairy

Firstly, the idea that a calcified piece of your body dies and falls off after about seven years of its existence is in itself a little disturbing, but add to that the fact that your parents tell you of a little pixie that will a) visit you in the night, b) reach her tiny, greedy pixie fingers under your pillow while you are sleeping in search of said expired calcified body part and c) trade it for a piece of currency is a little odd.

Secondly, and something that I fear many parents don't realize, is that some adults abstinently refuse to tell their children about the tooth fairy and her numismatic tendencies. For example: in 1st Grade, after the very proud loss of a molar, I awoke to find two strappingly brand new quarters resting delicately underneath my pillow. Proudly, I clasped them with my tiny little hand and carried them to school with all the pomp and circumstance of an empirical parade to show my friends how wonderfully gifted I had been during the night. This display was met with three reactions:

1. Excitement from the other children who had received a similarly modest monetary gain from a lost tooth. The general consensus seemed to be the standard 25¢ for a canine or incisor and a more gracious 50¢ for a molar (why, in childhood logic, a molar was worth more is still a little beyond me, yet it brings up an interesting idea: at what point in time did it become acceptable to teach children the monetary value of their body parts? How long before we start telling our offspring about the delightful "Kidney Fairy and her Ice Bath of Cold Comfort"?).

2. Odious disdain from the wealthier children whose parents seem to think it befitting that a canine is worth something closer to $1, while molars obviously deserve $2.

3. Jealousy and confusion from the children who had never been visited by the Pecuniary Pixie. Imagine being 6 yrs old and seeing all of your classmates proudly exhibiting shiny new quarters every time a piece of their body fell off. Firstly, that makes no logical sense. Secondly, the Tooth Fairy is now become a cruel joke of the upperclass in that she is no longer an innocent childhood fabrication meant to celebrate growth and the oncoming adulthood signified by necrotized body parts.

The Tooth Fairy is, in actuality, a vicious reinstating of an archaic caste system meant to downplay infantile equality and separate the wealthier children from the slightly less wealthy and moreso impoverished.

Myth 2: "Your face'll get stuck that way."

Certain as it would be unfortunate to wake up one wondrous morn to find your ears permanently out-stretched with elephantine glory, eyes bulging like Marty Feldman and mouth outstretched in what resembles a permanently agonized scream, I cannot recall a single child being upset by this particular parental threat. In fact, the reaction seems to be just the opposite as most children, with their tiny little brains and ecstatic ideas, will generally pause and reflect for a moment gleefully assessing this newfound fact of life before goonfully gazing back at said adult with an ever more emphatic facial expression in the hopes that, yes, one day their face WILL get stuck that way. I also vividly remember, after being thusly threatened, pouting my lips, pushing up on the tip of my nose ever-so-slightly, arching my eyebrows and hoping beyond hope that my face would get stuck that way. Apparently age 4 is when low self-esteem kicks into full gear.

Myth 3: The Gum Tree

After begging your parents with a determination rivaling unyielding adamancy, they finally concede to proffer you that delicious piece of bubblegum you so desire. Gleefully, you gently unwrap the treat from its foiled shell and pop the chewy aspartame delicious into your tiny little gob and begin maniacally masticating with the all the fervor of a dairy cow. Minutes pass and the glutinous glob is no longer the treat it once promised to be. Frantically, you glance around in search of a receptacle to be the new residence of this now ash flavoured treat, or even perhaps a scrap of paper with which to mummify the now hardening tripe. Your jaw begins to ache and hopelessness sets in as you realize there is nowhere to place this once celebrated morsel of mandibular masticating marvelousness. So you, in your stress, act in the only possible remaining way you know how: you swallow. And guess what? Now you're going to grow a gum tree in your stomach whose branches will sprout out of your ears and spawn delicious gummy fruit for the other children to chew upon and (eventually) swallow thus continuing the vicious cycle of parasitic gum tree growing in the bellies of youths on an international level until, one would assume, the gum tree eventually outgrows its host body and plants itself in the ground continuing to spawn delicious swollen gummy fruits for other unsuspecting children to grasp for in their innocence and fully continue the twisted propagation of the Gummus parasitus.

This is a wholly disturbing and fucked up thing to tell a child.