I hope I am the first to reach you with this news: hipsters are taking over New Mexico. I’d like to thoroughly blame American Apparel for tagging women’s clothing in the men’s section, Pabst Blue Ribbon, non-prescription glasses, ’80s revival neon plastic shades and those goddamn self-rolled cigarettes.
Hide your kids, hide your wife, hide everybody! Dance floors are being inundated by hipsters performing (non-unison) Sun Salutations and having epileptic fits, known only as Vinyasa flow yoga, to techno. Clothing stores have racks filled with clothing that is so ironic, to find a sweater without owls, sequined foxes or a Technicolor vomit of native prints, you are left to knit one yourself.
Coffee shops are now more smug than ever before, with the question, “what temperature would you like your coffee brewed?”
I WANT IT HOT, DAMN IT!
And music? Music has simply raised its middle finger and sighed, “whatever.”
Now, I don’t want to give you the wrong impression- I don’t mind hipsters. In fact, I’ve discovered a remarkable humorous quality in this subculture that they would only approve of: I laugh at them, they say I don’t get it, I laugh harder and remark how ironic it is, they reply “totally” and saunter away. It’s a beautifully reciprocated relationship and just the other day, I got to wait on my first hipster couple.
The couple walked through the restaurant and straight to my bartop. I proceeded to lay white linens as place settings and welcomed them. They settled in to their seats with a twinkle of excitement in their eyes. Someone had clearly just deposited their allowance.
The two took a moment analyzing the menu and as they did so, I analyzed them. He looked nearly dapper wearing what appeared to be vintage black Oxford’s with neon pink and grey argyle socks. His slacks were well-pressed and a perfect shade of charcoal grey. A crisp shirt was tucked into them; grey and white plaid with a ribbon of fuchsia and pearl snap-buttons trailed up his chest with a white bow tie garnishing his collar. A tight-fit brown corduroy vest was the unfortunate addition to his ensemble.
She, wore persimmon-colored leggings under a brown corduroy skirt and green peep-toed leather pumps. A white silk blouse billowed from beneath the same brown corduroy vest that her date was wearing. A white and blue keffiyeh was tied around her neck. Now, this is where things get strange.
Both not only had the same Mick Jagger haircut, but the same non-prescription oversized glasses with lime green frames. Her lips and eyelids matched her tights, and his haircut mirrored his facial hair. Their faces both adorned with unfortunate perma-frowns in efforts to mask their true happiness…irony at it’s best no doubt. These two were officially Mr. and Mrs. Hipster.
“Uh, I have a like, question-” spoke Mr. Hipster, snapping me out of my observing daze.
“I have an answer,” I replied. Both looked at me from above their faux glasses, their mouths ajar. Mrs. Hispter adjusted her bangs, set her elbow onto the bar and leaned her body weight forward.
“I’m a vegan,” she sighed.
“That’s not really a question,” I giggled, trying to lighten their perma-frown faces. They both sighed, looked at each other, then to me.
“Right. Anyway, we both are like vegans, so like what can we eat?” asked Mr. Hipster.
I ran through the few options we offer for vegans and I just as quickly placed their order. Walking back from the kitchen, I turned into the bar to find the two, mouths ajar, waiting for me with more questions.
“So like, the vegetables- where are they from?” questioned Mrs. Hipster. I proceeded to give my automated response to the restaurants ongoing efforts to promote Farm-to-Fork dining and how lately, a few local farms were providing us with produce.
“OK…[sigh] but like which vegetables are from which farms,” asked Mr. Hipster, “I just like knowing where my food comes from, or whatever. Right?”
“Right. Let me go ask my chef.” The kitchen is going to hate me.
I walked back to the kitchen and put on my best doe-eyes I could.
“Hey, chef?” I chirped, and without saying a word, he whipped around with a flaming sauce pan of spinach and grunted.
“So on these vegan dishes, the couple would like to know where the vegetables in question are from.”
Again, without saying a word, chef furrowed his brow and proceeded to walk to the back cooler barking, “BEHIND. HOT. OFF LINE!” to his minions on the line. Moments later, he walked back with the sauce pan still aflame in hand and passed me a list.
“Thanks!” I smiled only to have chef whip back around and continue with his flaming sauce pan.
I walked back into the bar with the list to find my hipsters sharing a set of earbuds, listening to the Vivian Girls. Yes, it was that loud.
“So, it looks like all of our greens are from a place in the north valley-”
“Which one?” inquired Mrs. Hipster.
“Spinach, kale, arugula-”
“No, the farm,” sighed Mr. Hipster.
“Oh, Cecilia’s. Cecilia’s Farm. The squash is from Los Poblanos as are the asparagus and the root vegetables…”
I trailed off as I saw what I had to tell them was not what they wanted to hear. As I read down the list to root vegetables and looked across to find that Gemini Farms had been crossed out and Cysco had been written in, I froze. Suddenly, I felt like Joseph McCarthy on the senate floor, with a list of phony local food providers.
Actually, it wasn’t nearly as false as McCarthy. Cysco Foods had to supply us with supplementary root vegetables, as those from the local provider ran out (due to their popularity I might add). But I couldn’t tell Mr. and Mrs. Hipster that. Their mouths were ajar and their eyes fixated on the list.
“Cysco Farm. They’re up north. Sound good? Great. I need to return this list to chef-” and with that, I darted to the kitchen, dropped the list in the order basket and quickly walked back into the bar. I had to change the subject quickly.
“So, where are you two from?” I asked, maniacally polishing wine glasses.
“From the Earth,” responded Mr. Hipster.
“Me too. Anywhere in particular?” I asked.
“[sigh] Originally, from Portland. But we’ve lived everywhere,” responded Mrs. Hipster.
“I see. What made you choose New Mexico?”
“Nothing,” said Mr. Hipster.
“It was chosen for us-” added Mrs. Hipster.
“Family?” I guessed.
“Scrabble,” answered Mr. Hipster.
“What? Like, the game Scrabble?” I questioned, completely bewildered.
“Yeah. Scrabble determines our destiny, or whatever,” said Mrs. Hipster.
I know her explanation was meant to clarify their answer, but it didn’t. How on Earth did a bar of square-inch wooden lettered tiles, determine their destiny? I have traditional Scrabble, travel Scrabble, Scrabulous on Facebook and a Scrabble application on my iPhone, and not a single version has ever determined my destiny. I was either missing out, or these two had their heads so far up their derrières, they could see out their own throats.
Attempting to phrase the question with as little skepticism as possible, I blurted, “How?”
“We get our bag of Scrabble tiles and grab a handful. Then we pull it out of the bag and see what it spells,” explained Mrs. Hipster.
“Yeah,” added Mr. Hipster.
“And those tiles spelled ‘New Mexico’?”
“No, they almost spelled Santa Fe. It was either Santa Fe or Seoul,” said Mrs. Hipster.
“We went with Santa Fe,” added Mr. Hipster.
“I can see that. Well, luckily you weren’t actually playing as proper nouns aren’t allowed!” I joked.
My joke was wasted.
“So you really drew Scrabble tiles and ended up here, huh?”
“Yeah, via Portland-” confirmed Mr. Hipster.
“Destiny,” remarked Mrs. Hipster, amorously gazing at Mr. Hipster.
Readers, the hipsters are here.
I’d also like to blame Portland, Oregon.