Cross Post #6: Hipsters, defined.



“But what about their legacy?” I was recently asked by New York magazine. “What will they have left behind after it’s all said and done?” This question gets on my nerves. “Music and fashion,” I answered incredulously. Since when are young people responsible for leaving us with anything more? Have you heard their politics? I don’t want these people voting. I want them doing what they do best: Fun. The greasers were about rock ’n’ roll and making out in rumble seats. The beatniks gave us some good books, but they were mostly about shocking their parents by dancing with Negroes. The only thing the mods cared about outside of dancing and getting laid was fighting Elvis fans. Boomers, who are masters at glorifying their past, insist they stopped a war, but we all know it was Kissinger’s relentless bombing that ended it. Hippies were horny stoners. Though I was one of them, I’m happy to admit punks were more preening peacocks with guitars than anarchists smashing the state. Rap evolved from parties in the South Bronx. The list goes on, and it’s always just teenagers partying.




The Forbidden Fruit of The Big Apple.

Do you remember the first time you settled somewhere and became rooted, even if it was inadvertently?

I do.  I’ve mentioned before how many places I’ve lived (20 different zip codes).  Without a doubt a gypsy was born when I turned eighteen.  A fly-by-her-seat gal that could easily fit everything owned into a coupe and jet off into the sunset on any given day.  It was a freedom unlike any other with just the open road, music, and me.  Pulling into unknown territory with a discovery high.  It never ceased to amaze me at how quickly I met people since I considered myself somewhat of an introvert, but in retrospect it could have been my romance with who I wanted to be.  Once the discovery was over, it was time to pull a Christopher Columbus (sans the raping and stealing from the Indians) and head into uncharted territory.   This was my life for six years, and then I took a bit of the forbidden fruit – the big apple.

I’ve got to be honest, when I first landed on the concrete paradise I didn’t think I would spend a year here much less 9 years.  Alas, here I am writing this post from postal code 10036 (Midtown).  I certainly never expected for my feet to dig into the ground, firmly planted, and grow roots.  So you trade in the concrete for a yard, which puts you in either Brooklyn, Long Island, or where I live, New Jersey. Had you told the gypsy she would be a homeowner in New Jersey, living with a woman, and chasing after three extremely spoiled animals, she would have told you to get off the acid.

I had always been the one leaving, departing for a new adventure.  I had a reputation to live up to  – my high school awarded me ‘Most Adventurous’.  Under the stability of today, friends all around me bid their goodbye and head into my previously chartered territory; a new life.  From where I stand, home, the fruit is bittersweet.

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