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.






In college I could take a tune deeper than the next girl, but something happened to this ability after working in the industry.  People often say if you work in an industry that you become numb to it, but I tend to think if you’re in something every single day you become numb to it anyway.  Maybe it was the Phish‘ers sitting with their oversized beanies, patchouli stench, and communal joint, that got me thinking of musical depth, or perhaps it was my second-hand high that just set me into an astral thought.

Maybe it’s Jeff Buckley’s secret chord, but I’m present.  My new therapist, yes I’m working on another book.  This has become my rite-of-passage during the write-myself-into-therapy seasons.  Luckily, this season was quality over quantity so it takes much less longevity to tattoo into my soul.  The new Psychiatric buzz is ‘disassociation‘, so I’m quite pleased that the tag was placed upfront.  I simply don’t have time to be looking up diagnosis codes in the DSM,  I really don’t.  Nonetheless, my therapist…we’ll call her Spinner (due to confidentiality I’m not allowed to use her real name.  You understand.)…Spinner told me I was damn lucky to have a writing outlet otherwise I would be a multiple.  We’re talking United States of Tara. I wish I would have known this years ago because I could have been Diablo-fucking-Cody!  Smart bitch, stealing my could be story.  I think Spinner and I connected enough that I’ll be seeing her steadily, and she’s been in it so long that she’s heard it all so my shock-value dilvulges only made her fingers shimmy in delight.  I must be secretly narcissistic too because she suggested someone write a book about me.  Hey, she’s the professional, not me.

Jeff Buckley’s voice makes me feel refined and appreciative of the vocal instrument, and for many years I have to admit to vocal discrimination; the voice is NOT an instrument.  I’ve long since changed my tune, though I still sing out of key; always a backup but never lead.

The Phishers, tonight at Madison, reminded me of myself and a few good hippies I met at school; the Carols, Matts, Michals, Buddhas, and Melissa.  I still listen to the music; just a little lower decibel, manifactured not natural additives, and on mute.  The real experience is catching the wave of feeling long enough to remember the view.

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