Hipster-Itis

I came home around 7:30 last night after a good ten hour drive from Detroit to find my apartment with the suspicious yet familiar smell of stale cigarette smoke, half empty beer cans that were left out for about a week and an unwashed wet suit that use to hang in our living room after a weekend long surf jaunt on Rockaway Beach. This was the distinct territorial markings of my ex-roommate Jake whom, despite his issues of cleanliness, wasn’t the worst roommate I ever had, but it still wasn’t comforting to know that he’ll always have a stinky presence at my apartment almost a year after he moved out. I made a mental note to buy Lysol again, thanked the gods for global warming as I opened the living room window for 50 degrees air circulation from outside and made another mental note that he stilled owed me money in back rent. Damnit, I thought I would be done with this roommate stuff by the time I was 35, but no, I just had to move to New York City with a further assurance that I’ll never able to afford to live on my own, ever.

Several hours and five beers later, I found myself at Park Slope hipster bar called Barfour with two 60 something year old women who were trying to molest me inside a photo booth, and they wouldn’t take no for an answer. Like a real life Patsy and Edina from Absolutely Fabulous, they were both covered in smeared make up and glitter and wore matching rhinestone miniskirts that got hiked up even farther while trying to sit on my lap. Amidst the melee of trying to squirm away, I “accidentally” unplugged the machine and made my escape to A. and L. while the two flappers went to get their three dollars back at the bar and promptly forgot about the whole thing as they felt up another patron on the dance floor who was young enough to be their grandson.

“This is definitely better than last year,” I yelled to A. while hip-hop blasted in the background.

“Fuck that,” A. blurted, “we gotta get you laid.” Clearly mishearing what I said, he quickly nudged some girl over in my direction with a scowl on her face and a noticeable dark smudge under her nose.

“Hi, I’m Mike” I said unintentionally defensive and weary.

“Hi, I’m Natalie and are you on coke?”

“No, I don’t do drugs.” I get this question surprisingly a lot because of my fidgety, nervous manner that’s unfortunately been with me since I was three.

“Are you sure? Cause I think you’re lying.” She then asked me two more times if I was on coke/Xanax or any other uppers. Nope. Most certainly not. By the forth time she asked, it dawned on me that she actually wanted me to offer her whatever I was on.

I looked over back to A. and asked him if he was trying to get me killed.

“I’m trying to get you laid,” Mister Love Guru blurted out again. I swear, he said more than this during the evening.

@@@

On the way back home, the weather way eerily perfect for biking as I was screaming happy new year to anyone within ear shot like some call and response holiday mascot to eventually, passing out random hi-fives to the Hasids in South Williamsburg. This makes me feel like I’m doing a good deed of some sort: Cheering up someone’s mediocre start of the year holiday even if my super cheery demeanor comes across as if I need an off switch. Whatever, it’s 2012 and according to a handful of conspiracy theorists and Mayan archeologists, our time here is limited but that’s not an excuse to start doing interesting things or updating this journal more than once a year.