Ironic Sunglasses Are the New Eyeliner...

Well that does it, I'm through with hipster kids.

I finally see why all those snarky webzines revile the indie rock "scene" as disingenuous. Here I was, deep in the Heart of Dixie, thinking that because I liked Death Cab for Cutie and the Decemberists that I would find people who populated their fanbase likable and interesting...In Bama, saying that you like indie music is almost like code for saying you are rebelling against the predominately redneck culture of SKYNARD!!! and Kenny Chessney!!! In Washington, however, hipster indie kids ARE the rednecks!

Well, not exactly. Rednecks can typically (and do from time to time) kick my ass. These Pacific Coast douches could barely kick my little sister's ass. What I mean to say is that the same way I wasn't "cool" in college because I didn't own a 4x4 Chevy with mud tires, I wouldn't be "cool" in Seattle because I refuse to squeeze my ass into size 4 girls jeans. So while enjoying some delicious encyclopedia rock is a badge of honor amongst my southern friends, out there it's like digging Nickleback...every silly jackass and their brother is into it just cause it's "hip."

I just returned from a badass weekend of bands and booze at the Sasquatch! (exclamation point added by them...that's how you know it's good) Music Festival. Think Bonaroo meets City Stages except there were bands I wanted to see and it was at the Gorge Amphitheater on the Columbia River which is truly spectacular. The views were breathtaking,

(not shopped)

and the beauty of the backdrop inspired more than one band to put on a monster show. That being said, there was also a hefty amounts of douchbaggery to contend with...hence the blog.

So a few years ago, a friend (we'll call him EmoDan) and I were talking about the state of pop-punk which we both took guilty pleasure in. He remarked to me that with the rise of bands like Fall Out Boy and Panic! at the Disco (don't random exclamation marks make everything cooler?), punk eyeliner was becoming the equivalent of grunge flannel which was equal and opposite to 80's hairspray which was only slightly less ghey than the leisure suit and so on. Well I have one more category to add to that over used genre specific band costume list: The Ironic Sunglasses.

Ironic Sunglasses are typically black oversized shades with neon frames that can be purchased at any low quality gas station across the country,


but they could be any form of eye wear that looks ridiculous...on purpose. I saw literally thousands of kids wearing these things this weekend.


Each time I saw a pair, God killed a kitten. Even some of the bands were sporting them...ahem...Bishop Allen...



More disconcerting than that though was how young these kids catch the bug...



That wasn't all though...apparently, any form of apparel can be turned into ironic hipster gear.



or more hot/creative/creepy:



or if you want to go WAY off the deep end...



Basically, I guess people just piss me off. I used to think if I went up to the Pac-Northwest and hung out in the same haunts as the likes of Nirvana and Death Cab, I would fit right in. Now I think if I lived up there I would probably be sporting a Budweiser t-shirt with cut off sleeves, screaming Freebird at the top of my lungs...just to be ironic.

or maybe not:



CRAP!

OGFS an Introduction

Moving forward a year.

This is a period of my life that I still don't quite have a handle on. Seriously...

I consider myself a pretty perceptive person. Combine that with my rampant narcissism and you can imagine the great bouts of introspection I undergo from time to time. I have stewed on these years for a while, trying desperately to discern the causal links that led me down my path. However, (barring significant psychological counseling) I may never know for sure. The best I have come up with so far is that I must have been ill. Not like physically ill. You know, the fun kind...mental illness. In hindsight, I would have to diagnose myself with what is commonly known as the Succubus Flu.

It's kind of difficult for me to talk about it. The mere mention of the word sends chills down my spine. I probably need to give it a new name...something less scary and possibly more scientifically descriptive. Maybe, "Oppressive Girlfriend Syndrome (OGFS)." Cool. The Centers for Disease Control would be so proud...I should look into spinning pandemics for a living.

OGFS is a common disease often caught by busy and unsuspecting boys or wealthy but otherwise undesirable old men. The main pathogen is carried by scheming and manipulative females hell bent on extracting all the lust for life from their victims. Like vampires, they seek out the feral essence of their prey and sustain themselves upon it.


So I have fallen prey to OGFS more than once in my life...In fact, I seem to be genetically predisposed to suffer from the condition. I have endured many different strains of the disease from the bitchy and controlling to the coddling and overbearing. Of all the cases though, one stands out above the rest. The first few years of my college experience was marred by the mother of all Oppressive Girlfriends...the UberOGF...the Fountainhead from which all others flow. We will refer to her henceforth as OGF-0.

As terrible as the rein OGF-0 was, I still managed to come away from her internment with some pretty hilarious stories...mostly at her expense. Actually, the more I ponder our relationship, the more I find our antics less like a cheeky give and take and more like a brutal, gladiatorial death match. In my defense, I did try to break up with her a few times instead of just cheating on her (Sometimes it even worked...for a while), but for years she found ways of weaseling back into my life. Even now, years later, she lurks...like herpes, dormant but not defeated.

Anyway, this disclosure will serve as a reference for future stories...

Let's Begin at the Very Beginning

OK. From the dawn of the 60's, college has been a place to expand one's mind and do things that just aren't socially acceptable in polite society...and promptly get that shit out of your system. The trouble is that in this day and age with our "arrested development" and all, I find that more often than not, college has turned into a mere training ground for postgraduate debauchery.

So even as this blog will develop into a real time exploration of the darker reaches of my soul, I feel that I should begin at the beginning--go back to ground zero and see where this train started to run off the rails. It's been a while, but I swear somewhere in the distant past, I was a good and sincere person. If not that, I was at least the stuffed shirt, SGA president, Salutatorian of my high school. My parents used to be proud.

Anyway...

I went to Auburn University. I joined a fraternity (which will remain nameless) because hey, my dad was in one and so was his dad. It made sense at the time. Now anyone who has attended large state schools (and anyone who has seen Animal House for that matter) probably already has preconceived notions of fraternity life for better or worse. I'm not saying that the movies are all true, but at Auburn I can vouch for them being pretty damn close.

Hazing was definitely the rule at the house I belonged to. Every morning at 6am we had "football" practice (I use the quotation marks because I never actually saw a football). Basically we had an hour and a half of calisthenics straight out of the Paris Island Playbook. Now this was a pain in my ass, especially considering the mid-week drinking regimen that consumed most every night. So you can imagine the sheer look of jubilation that occupied every one of our faces the morning our "pledge trainer" i.e. "drill sergeant" informed us that the pledge who brought the fattest shacker to football practice the next morning was exempt from exercise.

That's right boys and girls, call me Kermit the mother fuckin Frog cause I'm going hoggin!


You see that was the day of our first Pledge Swap. For the uninitiated, pledge swaps are an archaic dating concept where one group of fraternity pledges are thrust awkwardly into a group of sorority pledges equipped only with a ridiculous theme as an icebreaker. There is a little get to know you session then the party retires to somewhere less formal for the consumption of copious amounts of alcoholic beverages.

Well this particular swap was, "a training run," or "one to clean the pipes on before the good ones." I shit you not, these were actual phrases we heard from our older brethren. They had set us up with one of several bottom rung sororities, I guess so we could transition from talking about what football position we played to how we were all going to become doctors, lawyers, future noblemen, and magistrates.

Our theme: White Trash.


So clad in overalls and racing t-shirts, the 40 of us huddled to one end of the room as the sorostitutes trickled in. We had all day to mull over the pros and cons of taking a fatty home. The mockery vs. a much needed day off if you will. As for me there was no question...I am fucking lazy and therefore had been listening to Queen's "Fat Bottomed Girls" on repeat all day to psyche myself up. I was going to attack this challenge with all the ferocity that I could muster. I had my mark in no time, I mean it wasn't like you could miss her...she was a huge bitch! We're talking 5'6" 180~190 (for a sorority clone, that is absolutely massive). JACKPOT! I immediately clocked my competition as well. It turned out that there were only about 6 of us that were unscrupulous enough to attempt the act of getting fatty not only to our bed, but also to the practice field in the morning.

Time for strateegery. I watched as a few went in and tried to talk to her, she seemed put off...I assume in retrospect that she had never been approached by sober boys before. She was having a hard time processing it. Here's where I took my gamble...I didn't speak to her at all. A few glances here and there, but otherwise, nothing. Soon enough it was time to take the party back to a duplex for the boozing. That's where I made my move. Long story short, it took a few gallons of hunch punch and hours of my rapier wit to wear her down, but eventually I ended up with Miss Piggy back at my place...it was 3am.

Now what went on between 3 and 6am are between me, her and her glorious FUPA. There will be plenty of time for you to judge me as time goes by. No need to waste it all on the first post. Suffice it to say that while my little blubber bucket slept soundly I paced the floor wondering how exactly I had arrived at this specific point in my life. Sometimes I still wonder...

Anyway, the clock eventually hit 6 and I woke her up, gave her a shack shirt (all she had been wearing the night before was a white trash bag...keeping it classy), and ushered her to my car. She was groggy from lack of sleep and probably still a little drunk, but she immediately knew something was up when she realized I was going the opposite direction of her apartment.

her: Where are you taking me?
me: Home...just uh, gotta make a quick stop first...yeah
her: where?
me: ... .... ... ...

As I pull into the parking lot, she sees the cars and crowd of my pledge brothers and proceeds to bawl. I mean huge alligator tears. I almost felt bad, but I was way too proud of my catch. Like a fisherman towing a 1200 pound marlin to the shore, I was sure this one was going to win...hell maybe even break a record. While I was imagining my name being etched into the hoggin hall of fame, we pulled closer and closer to the crowd. As we approached, my elation gave way to despair...in fact I felt like crying just as hard as she was...

Standing in the middle of the crowd, happier than a pig in shit, was our fat pledge (every class has one). We'll call him "Chuck." Chuck's aversion to running was apparently much much much stronger than mine. So much so that he went out and got himself a ringer. This girl was definitely not at the party. I doubt she even went to Auburn, I can't imagine the university being able to shoulder her burden on the meal plan. I guess he found her at an overeaters anonymous meeting or something. She made mine look like a Calvin Klein model. Seriously, she was a whopping deuce or deuce and a half..and completely unabashed. Chucky was wearing her underwear on his head running around the parking lot!


The shear physics of the act was mind boggling. I pondered that conundrum as I came to terms with the fact that I had lost and would be running that morning. Then almost as an afterthough I looked over at this girl in my front seat, curled into a ball, mortified, bawling her eyes out, I could only say one thing:

Oops...