Football, I Just Can’t Quit You

It’s been two weeks since my last blog post.

I’d love to say that I’ve been busy feeding the poor, saving the manatees, or doing 10,000 push-ups – pretty much anything productive.

The truth is, I haven’t done a damn thing besides watch football.

Hey, I can look at things objectively – spending an entire weekend watching football is about as ridiculous as waiting in line for the premiere of a Harry Potter movie in full-on Ron Weasley cosplay as an adult (and no, I have not done that). I know Emily loves my obsession with football. When she’s saying something to me during a game and I don’t even turn my face away from the TV to look into her eyes, she thinks I’m the biggest loser ever. And I am.

Let’s think about it – football is a sport marketed as being masculine and full of bravado yet straight males all over the country completely ignore their beautiful girlfriends and wives to watch grown men, in essence, wrestle each other over a ball.

In a weird twist, comic book nerds think I’m such a loser for watching gratuitous amounts of football, because surely collecting mint condition action figures and obscure limited edition issues only released in Japan is a way better use of time.

I get absolutely nothing done when football’s on TV. I’ll move a load of laundry from the washer to the dryer and let it dry only to have it sit in my dryer for the whole weekend. I’ll hold in my piss until I can’t anymore because I don’t want to miss a play. My exercise for the day is getting into my car and driving to get carne asada burritos. I won’t shave at all so by Sunday night I’ll have the classic ironicly-thin Asian man mustache. I know, I know, I’ll stop – the ladies are getting too hot and bothered. Don’t want to get y’all too aroused – I am taken, after all.

Look, I know it’s dumb, but like Jake Gyllenhall famously said, I wish I knew how to quit you, football.

Hell, I’m watching a show about football right now as I write this blog post. This is sick. I’m a sick person. Then again, I’ve probably already established that by now, haven’t I.

This kind of symbolizes what’s going on in society today. As individuals, we have the potential to accomplish quite a bit, but what do we do instead? Watch someone else accomplish things on TV.

I’ve made up my mind – I’m going to turn this damn TV off.

After these highlights.

Chris.

A Guide to Getting a Girl’s Digits

Last night, our friends got together to celebrate Chris turning another year wiser.

We went to this bar/lounge/club in Orange County called The Commissary Lounge. I would like to rename this place The Meat Market. I have coined it The Meat market because my girlfriends and I could feel the eyeballs scanning us from head to toe as we walked into the empty room at 9:30. Picture a big warehouse, empty in the center of the room, and the perimeters lined with couches, a full bar, and a DJ. As the time passed on and the center started filling in, I did notice some women whenever I scanned the room for Chris. But it was definitely a sausage fest from where I was standing. So much of a sausage fest that there was an endless rotation of men who approached we three girls the entire night.

Credit: Yelp

As one of Chris’s friends puts it, “You know you’re a hot commodity when you’re drunk and you didn’t even pay for a single drink.”

Chris has written posts about how he thinks men should approach women. Given yesterday’s eventful night, I’d like to share a woman’s perspective of what works and what doesn’t work. Without further ado, I share with you a tactical guide to getting a girl’s number.

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WHAT WORKS: Approaching a girl and asking her common questions like, A/S/L? I must have told at least 5 guys that we were from Arizona and I now live in Fullerton. *Yawn*.

WHAT WORKS BETTER: Small talk and basic get-to-know-you is okay, but what really stands out is when someone can spark a common interest or make an interesting observation off the bat. It is also refreshing when someone can show off their sense of humor or personality instead of interview you. Maybe I am annoyed by the interview questions because I’m a recruiter Monday-Friday. Leave me alone.

Example: A guy started asking a series of “Would you rather” questions. “Would you rather be fat with a beautiful face or have a model body with an ugly face?” … “Would you rather live life to the fullest and die at 35 or live a stable, ordinary life until 60?” … “Would you rather have hair all of your body and not be able to shave or be hairless everywhere?” The defensive shield lowered with every laugh.

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 WHAT WORKS: Early on in the night when the room was empty, us three girls sat on the couches. We were engaging in conversation until a pot head randomly sat down on one end and proceeded to have a conversation with Ms. Hot Commodity. This approach was okay, as he ended up conversing for around 15 minutes. Apparently he was pretty deep with the aid of Mary Jane.

WHAT WORKS BETTER: A really outgoing, confident dude came up to all three of us on the dance floor. What was really smooth about this approach was he didn’t single any one of us out. But what he was able to pick up from this conversation was that I was in a relationship, another was engaged, and only one was available. Even then, he continued to engage with the engaged girl, making jokes like, “How did I not notice that? Look at that ring. That must be a VS2.” Girls look to their girlfriends for approval and by being friendly with a girl’s girlfriends, you’ve just made allies. Plus, if you are able to learn multiple girls are single, you can then make your move instead of strike out with the, “Sorry. I have a boyfriend.” move. Often told by single girls as a shield.

WHAT DOESN’T WORK: A dude literally came up to me and introduced himself as we shook hands. The next question he asks is, “Where are you from?” As I internally sighed, I explain I’m from AZ but moved to Fullerton. He follows up with, “What made you move out here?” I replied, “For love.” What happened next? This fool literally walked away. Good luck getting close to my single friends!

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 WHAT REALLY WORKS: Be genuinely nice.  There were a group of guys towards the end of the night who offered to buy us girls multiple drinks. But then one of them realized Miss Anonymous probably had reached her limit, and offered to get her water. Not just tap water but bottled water. This doesn’t really matter too much to me because when I’m dehydrated I could care less if it is filtered but bonus points to this super considerate nice guy.

By the way, this guy was the only one out of all the sausages who ended up leaving with a number. 🙂

#Winning

~Emily

Vomiting My Way To Six-Pack Abs

Currently, I’m on a diet.

This means my stomach is constantly empty, like my soul.

I started watching Dexter. I really like this guy. He knows who he is and what he’s born to do, which is more than I can say for most of us. But I digress.

The combination of my low-tolerance for alcohol and my new diet is quite volatile.

The other day, I had Korean barbecue with Emily and two of our friends. Since I’m Korean and stupid, I decided to drink beer with my meat.

When I finished stuffing myself with brisket and lager, we headed back to our house for more drinks, continuing the night’s theme of smart life decisions.

After smoking half a cigarette and taking in a sip of Bourbon, I met reality. He’s a mean fucker.

He punched me right in the gut, fully knowing I had done some Ab workouts earlier in the day. What an asshole.

I went upstairs to change into something more comfortable when I approached a crossroads.

Actually, it was Morpheus. He held out both hands, palms up, as he’s apt to do. I wanted to ask him how the hell those glasses balance on his nose, but before I got a word out, he said, “You can either throw up now and pass out, or you can pass out and deal with the hangover tomorrow morning.”

“That’s an easy decision, dumbass. Don’t you know I’m on a diet?” Morpheus was never the smartest.

So I made my way to say a quick prayer to the porcelain god. I said hello again to the brisket and lager from earlier in the evening, flushed them goodbye, washed up, and collapsed on my bed.

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The next morning, I woke up feeling great.

Not only was I able to eat great food and drink beer, but I didn’t feel bloated and hungover the following day.

I got up and looked in the mirror.

Yessir. The stomach is looking tighter, baby.

I guess I’m vomiting my way to six-pack abs.

 

– Chris.

 

 

Dear Ladies: Wait for 30

It’s been around seven weeks since Emily and I started this blog.

During this time, I have scoured the WordPress blogosphere and I have literally lost count of the number of posts I’ve read about how men are immature, creepy, and have a general lack of common sense.

Gee, y’all ladies are real funny.

No, to be honest, I enjoy reading these diatribes on males. The female bloggers we follow have great senses of humor and I look forward to reading more rants about the buffoonery surrounding men.

But yet, I am a man.

It’s like hearing a racist joke about Asians told by a non-Asian. It’s funny and I laugh, but I can’t help but feel some level of angst, right?

Actually, no, I love racist jokes. They never upset me, unless the joke is super lame. But I digress.

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Here is what I want to say to the hetero-female bloggers out there:

Okay, I get it: men suck.

We can be Neanderthals at times, many times in fact. We always laugh if a fart or a dick joke is involved.

Our communication skills are, well let’s just say they can leave something to be desired. Sometimes we text you so much that the iMessage thought bubble seems permanently fixed to the text conversation, and yet there are other times when we act like you don’t even exist.

We want sex all the time. No dinner. No movie. No drinks. Just come over. Conversation? Bitch please. So what if it’s 3 AM and we live thirty miles away? Our magical penises will make it worth you’re while.

Do you feel those eyes staring at you from across the bar, burning a quarter-shaped hole into your cerebral cortex? Yeah, that’s us. We are on full-creep mode, our eyes looking you up and down as our mind’s eye undresses you, naked as the day you were born. And we don’t give a fuck.

We’ll buy you a drink. See, this way your inhibitions will go down and you’ll be shoving your vaginas in our faces. It’s a full-proof plan.

Movies? Books? Hobbies? Which ones do we like? Whichever one gets us in your pants.

***

Okay, calm down everyone. I just wanted to paint a picture of the men you all are describing in these blog posts.

Here’s the thing: to me, most of these guys sound like men in their twenties.

Men in their twenties are nothing but giant balls of testosterone (pun definitely intended) held together by bones, organs, and flesh.

You have to forgive them; it’s a biological thing. And now that every type of porn known to man is available in about 5 seconds, well they’re just jacking off constantly, and this is only making them more impatient and more prone to throw out manners and just go for the jugular.

Since it’s 2015 now, if a male was born between 1985 and 1995, he is probably masturbating to some grotesque shit right at this very moment. But I digress yet again.

***

There’s a silver lining: we mature at 30.

When we hit 30, we think, “Hey, wouldn’t it be cool if we just listened once in a while?”

Or, “Wow, I actually enjoy spending a Friday night at home reading a good book.”

Or even still, “She’s got a cool personality. I appreciate the conversations we have.”

Wait, hold up, did you just say conversation? Yes I did. You see, we get better at that sort of thing, that whole human interaction thing. We give less shits about trying to impress you and more shits about being true to ourselves.

We learn to stand up for our principles and values, and this makes us unique.

We can develop genuine interest in you as a person, while still wanting to have sex with you, no doubt. But this we know can wait.

Guys get better at 30; we actually start to grow up.

But keep dating them twenty-somethings, because I love reading these blog posts.

Yours truly,

– Chris.

 

Should Parents Post Photos of Their Children on the Internet?

I stumbled across an interesting AskReddit thread posing the following question:

Within the next 10 years, a generation of children whose parents posted their entire lives online, without their consent, will become young adults. How do you think they’ll feel about it?

Pause. Think about that. It is a really great question. We all know from this article titled, “How Many Kids Do You Want?”, I am rather dog obsessed and not child obsessed. My only “child”, a 5 year old, is very hairy, walked from day one, and still hasn’t talked. Do I post photos of Kang Kang online? Hell yes… he has more followers than I do (follow him!). Do I ask him if I can snap photos and post him on social media? Hell no! But again, he is a dog and he can’t talk back. This is why dogs are man’s best friends and “children”.

@oclhasa — doing what he does best: act cute!

But would I care as a human being? The best way to answer this personally is to think back through all of my photo albums sitting in my mother’s home. You know, the Polaroid and Kodak moments where every snap counted because you only had limited film. As a baby, I was often told I looked like a monkey… I had fine, static-infused hair that stood straight up, huge cheeks and deer-in-headlights eyes. My mother also had an interest in taking naked photos of me. I often wondered if Instagram was around in the 80’s, would I go viral as @NakedMonkeyBaby? Transitioning into a pre-teen, things were not looking up in the appearance department. I had awful hand me downs from my older brother who was 7″ taller. His shorts were my high-waters when high-waters weren’t in. I often cried, “Why can’t you be a sister?!” I wore these really ugly coke-bottle glasses with metal frames that took over half my face (you can’t even pass them off as hipster). I grew up surrounded by 4 male cousins and as a result turned into a bit of a tomboy. There is actually a photo of me at a park in the scorching AZ summer – topless – with 4 topless boys. I have to admit I could really pass off as a boy, especially with my identical bowl-shaped hair cut that matched my brothers. My hair was never brushed and I never wore dresses. As a teenager, things started finally looking up. I started to blossom and became more confident. I was able to save up my own money and bought new clothes that actually fit. In the final year of high school, I registered for a Facebook account and started posting photos of my teenage self on my own. I liked having the say in which photos were Facebook-worthy and which were to be deleted and never surfaced on the web.

Brother & I (with monkey hair)

Going back to the original question, I think it’s safe to say I’m just thankful my parents still don’t know how to use the photo function on Facebook. My response is out of sheer embarrassment of being an ugly duckling monkey growing up. I’m not sure if I would feel differently if I were cute or pretty. What I can say though is I do enjoy gathering in the living room with family and friends, browsing through physical photo albums, and allowing them to laugh at my expense. There is something sentimental about not having all of your photos visible to just anyone online. Funny side note: My mom is on Facebook and she is my friend. I once posted a photo of my brother and I. She commented, “Good picture. Put on Facebook.” This illustrates how technically savvy they are (thank God).

My advice to parents if they want to post photos of their kids is 2-fold: 1.) Make sure it is a flattering photo – save the embarrassing ones for a private album and 2.) Make sure metadata or geolocation settings are disabled. When I posted photos of Kang Kang on Instagram I had my “Add to Photo Map” setting on. Chris pointed it out and said to remove it because if you zoom in you can actually see where we live! It’s pretty spot on. God forbid any dognapper knowing my routine over the course of 10 posts and one day dognapping him! Apparently there are stories of this happening to children so be diligent. The other thing to consider is your photos can end up anywhere as you’ve given permission when you accept the Terms & Conditions on sites like Facebook. There was a Facebook lawsuit when a girl realized her face was part of a sponsored advertisement photo. Facebook won (surprise!); lucky for the girl it wasn’t an STD campaign. Oh, and don’t forget about the creepers. Child pornography exists. I would be mortified if my physical photo albums ever become Facebook albums. Which leads me to the next point – don’t accept friend requests from strangers. I keep getting weirdos inviting me to be friends. To which I say:

Let’s discuss! What are your thoughts to this question?

Checkout Charities – To Donate or Not To Donate?

TJ Maxx Home Goods Cashier: OK. So total today comes to $86.43.
Me: OK. I’ll put it on my credit card.
TJ Maxx Home Goods Cashier: Would you like to donate to Save the Children Foundation today?
Me: No thanks.
TJ Maxx Home Goods Cashier: Are you sure?
Me: *awkwardly* …Yes.
TJ Maxx Home Goods Cashier: [in a condescending voice] Okay. (Shoves me my bags of pillows and other decorative items clearly necessary for daily survival.)

It’s not that I don’t care for children despite my article of potentially never wanting to have children of my own. The same interaction generally happens at Petsmart, except there is no human asking you if you would like to donate, it’s on the credit card screen as:

Would you like to donate to your local humane society?
No Thanks   $1   $2   $3   Other

That is smart. Automated computers never get tired or forget to ask the question. The man in front of me donated, and as the cashier handed him his receipt, he announced, “Thank you for your generous donation today.” Then it was my turn to be rung up. *Gulp*. Now that my wallet is out and it’s clear I have $60 to spend on Kang Kang’s grooming, I should donate at least a dollar to a poor homeless dog, shouldn’t I? I’m sure the woman behind me heard the other man’s donation. Will she judge me and think I am a selfish, awful human being with no heart if I click that ‘No Thanks’ button? Will the cashier smile at me the same way he smiled at the donating man?

That is the problem I have with Checkout Charities. It has capitalized on human psychology and was invented to make a consumer feel trapped, guilted, and selfish if they decline on donating. I once asked a cashier at Albertson’s, “Can you tell me more about this charity? What percentage of the donations go to the actual charity? How much of it goes towards their cause?” She didn’t know how to answer a single question, not even the mission. Well, that is just fantastic.

It really is astounding. According to Cause Marketing Forum’s report, retailers raised $358.4 million in 2012 through this method. Its great for retailers because it makes them look like they actually care about non-profits and great for non-profits because they can profit. All the meanwhile the donations come from the consumer who really has no idea where the money is flowing to.

An article came out in the NY Times recently, titled ‘4 Cancer Charities Are Accused of Fraud‘. Everyone can relate to knowing someone who has been affected by cancer, right? Its devastating and we all want to find a cure or at least make the cancer patients remaining life better. So we slap pink ribbons on everything and hundred of millions of donation dollars later, there goes the executives taking a trip to Disneyworld… without the cancer patients. Only 3% of proceeds actually went to cancer patients?  This is ludicrous.

Not to be confused with Ludacris, a rapper.

Going back to human psychology, I find it really interesting that many stores now ask, “Would you like to round up your change to the next dollar?” I almost always say yes on this one. I don’t know what it is about nice whole round numbers. And for some reason knowing you are donating less than a dollar almost makes it feel like 0. What? My total is $3.01? Sure, let’s round that to $4. Add 99 cents …pfft that’s not even enough to buy a junior cheeseburger post tax.

Anyways, my point is, don’t get scammed into donating. Donate to causes you care about and donate anonymously. Unless you’re in the PAC party, there’s no need to share with the public who you support unless your end goal is to get others to donate to your cause you’ve researched and feel passionate about. Look at every charity as if they are a homeless drunk man asking you for a dollar. Would you trust this person?

Let’s discuss! To donate or not to donate?

– Emily

A Personal Vignette II: The Orange Dress

The dance floor was a sea of bodies. People were dancing, yet no one had any space to move. My friends and I had been there many times, and on this particular night there were five of us.  We were two hours into our night and by then the drinks were flowing. We felt good, and the vibe was whimsical. Everyone was having fun.

The club was dark inside, with the main sources of light being the blue beams that highlighted the dance floors and the bars. There were three bars at this club: one near the main entrance and one in the back of each of the two dance floors. There was a constant stream of patrons peddling through the dark walkways that connected the two dance floors; the restroom, which was located in between the dance floors; and the outside patio, where people went out to catch some fresh air and smoke cigarettes.

Inside, it was loud; the combination of the music blasting and the raucous of the crowd was a familiar noise. Every now and then a glass would break, but no one really cared. One dance floor played house and the other played hip-hop. The hip-hop floor was the more popular one.

At this particular moment, I was alone. I had either gone to the restroom or the bar, I can’t remember which. People were all around but I didn’t know any of them. I felt the weight of solitude in a place where people existed in groups. I went looking for my friends.

I knew some of them had to be on the hip-hop floor. I quickly spotted Tony and Alan. Tony had a huge grin on his face; he was probably on drink number eight. Alan was bobbing his head to the music with a relaxed smile, because, well, that’s what Alan does. I didn’t see Dave or Jeff anywhere. They were probably having a smoke outside.

I was with Tony and Alan when I saw her. In a crowd full of moving body parts she seemed to stand still. She was a good ten feet away from me. We caught eyes, and for some reason neither of us looked away. She had curly hair, dyed brown, that went down to the shoulders, and she was wearing an orange dress. She might have been Chinese or Vietnamese; I was never good at telling. We locked eyes for a good ten seconds. She was pretty, and she was smiling. Then she called me over with her index finger.

I didn’t refuse the invitation. I might have thought her advances were strange and been put off by them had I not been as intoxicated as I was from the drinking. But I didn’t care; she seemed harmless, and a woman’s smile can disarm even the most guarded men. I came up to her and she placed her arms on top of my shoulders, wrapping them around my neck. She was about five inches shorter than me. We began to dance. She had the same look on her face throughout-that easy smile which looked painted on her face by a smooth brush. She kept her eyes on me as we moved closer together, and then we kissed.

There was no hello. I didn’t even know the sound of her voice, let alone her name, and yet here we were, sucking face on the hip-hop floor. I was buzzed but fully aware of how odd this was, and I just went with it. We continued for about five minutes. Afterwards, I lifted my head and felt the alcohol rushing through my brain. It was as if I had sucked some booze out of the girl’s mouth and into my system. I looked at her and she gave me one last smile, and then she walked away without saying a single word. I was a bit shocked.

Then the music stopped and the lights turned on. The once boisterous crowd composed themselves, turning off their wild, uninhibited alter egos that were present just a while before. I was still in a daze, the combination of the drinks and the girl in the orange dress leaving me a bit disheveled. Our group walked out of the club together. I didn’t tell any of them what happened.

We were walking back to our car when I saw her again. She was walking barefoot, heels in hand. Our exchange a half hour ago was so bizarre that I felt compelled to go over to her to try to make some sense of it all. I sneaked away from my friends and began walking towards her. I was heading her way when I stopped in my tracks: the girl in the orange dress rushed to a nearby trash can, bent over it, and started vomiting. A girlfriend held her hair back as she heaved with her entire upper body. I quickly turned back and caught up with my friends as if I never changed direction at all.

I learned something valuable that night: Making out with a random girl in a club is a risk-she might throw up in your face.

– Chris.

The Bait and Switch Follower

There we were Friday afternoon around 3pm, listening to our iPhones simultaneously chime as the WordPress notification’s cheerful tone went baaddiinngg!  Scrambling to our phones, unlocking our screens, there it was. The beautiful shiny badge:

100 Followers! As we hugged each other, jumping up and down like we were at a Tiesto concert, we giddily gushed about our excitement that 100 readers subscribed to our infant blog. Pop the champagne! Order the 3-tier chocolate lava cake! Put on some Kool & The Gang. Release the streamers and balloons! It’s celebration good times, come on!

Eager to see who our 100th follower was, I looked back at our notifications. Wait a minute. Were we hallucinating?? It says we have ninety-nine! 99 followers and a bitch ain’t one. The follower bitch unfollowed us! The nerves. This bait & switch act is preposterous! It is like…

– Chasing the girl of your dreams until she finally gives into a first date and you say, “HA HA HA SIKE! YOU’RE SO EASY.”

– Clicking on a Buzzfeed article in hopes to learn something slightly intellectual based on the title, only to see it’s another post filled with cats and Justin Bieber’s hair.

Bait and switch followers. I can’t imagine what goes through that followers mind. “Hey Bruce, watch this… I will follow this person’s blog, let them feel a glimmer of excitement and pleasure, wait 10 minutes, just enough time to allow them to click on my profile and follow me back. Wait for it… wait for it.. *clicks unfollow*.” Their justification is they are higher up on the internet pyramid and therefore walk on mighty internet ground. They matter-o-factly state, “I will continue to rise with a higher follower:following ratio while they stupidly think their ratio continues to be 1:1. Bahaha. Call me the Phantom Follower.”

The real life version of following and unfollowing would be like befriending someone and letting them live the rest of their lives thinking they are a great friend who is just always busy. The call went straight to voice mail — she must be on a plane. The iMessage was read but 24 hours later still no reply back — it must be her two year old who opened it. The Instragram post shows she was tagged in a photo at the bar — it must be a #lategram. She said she couldn’t go out.

Don’t be that friend or follower!

Be the loyal follower – follow us until we compromise our blogging integrity by posting lists like 10 Things You Didn’t Know About Bieber or posts filled with quizzes like Why Don’t Your Friends Like You. If you’re on Bloglovin’ follow us if you really like what we have to write. For those that haven’t unfollowed yet — stay cool!

– Emily

Death to One-Upping

Everyone knows that guy, hell everyone was that guy at least once.

Let’s go back to a familiar scene when we were kids. Two boys are out in the grass during recess. The first boy says, “My dad is so strong, he can lift 200 pounds.” The second boy says, “Oh yeah? Well my dad was in the army and went to Vietnam.” The first boy says, “Oh yeah? My dad went to Vietnam too and he was the best shooter in his platoon.” The second boy says, “So! My dad was a sergeant in the army so he told other soldiers what to do!”

Undoubtedly, this conversation is going to end up at – My dad can kick your dad’s ass.

We’d like to think we’ve evolved and matured since our childhood, but have we really? This syndrome of one-uppery continues to plague many well into adulthood. We can be in the office and find ourselves in a verbal joust over who is busier than the other when we clearly know that no one is doing shit. We can be in the gym lifting ten more pounds than our workout partner even though our arms feel like they’re gonna fall off. We can also be in the bar, caught in a bragging competition over who has hooked up with hotter chicks (apparently, everyone bangs Gisele’s and Halle Berry’s). This instinct to mask insecurity through topping others must come to a stop. We’ve got to stop. I’ve got to stop.

As is the case for many of our personal shortcomings, self-awareness is the first step towards recovery. We must be honest about our one-upping tendencies, and it’s our duty to muster up the intestinal fortitude to fight the urge to top the person next to us.

I will leave you with a clip from Portlandia which sums up this message rather brilliantly.

– Chris.

The Hipster Epidemic

“Everything popular is wrong.” – Oscar Wilde

That statement is full of truth. I tend to believe that the general population doesn’t want to think critically, but rather prefer to be spoon-fed information and ideas. I also believe in progress, the idea that evolution and change are good. If people never questioned norms and conventions the world may still be flat and women would be stuck in the kitchen. Standards and traditions need to be challenged, this is how society improves.

Unfortunately, hipsters are ruining everything.

I don’t know when this happened, but hipsters have become total douchebags. Their counter-culture views and alternative values are no longer respected and admired. All I see are watered down clones with no true convictions except for one – being cool. And they’re everywhere.

I can remember having a conversation with someone in a bar. I do enjoy a cold brew as much as anyone; in fact by this time I had developed personal tastes and preferences of beer. This person started to drone on about his beer tastes, reciting every fact he knew about beer, explaining to me why he believed Stone IPA to be the best IPA.

As I nodded, three words rung out in my head, repeatedly – I … hate you. I hate this guy. I don’t quite remember, but I may have whispered that underneath my breath.

This diluted hipster clone accomplished two things: 1) he completely killed my enthusiasm for beer, and 2) he made me question myself. Was I as douchey as he was, simply because of my love and knowledge of beer? Was I taking beer too seriously? Once the I hate you mantra faded in my head, an internal dialogue followed:

Stone IPA, really?

Don’t you know that the best hops on the west coast are from Northern California? I mean, you could’ve mentioned Lagunitas or Bear Republic and I would’ve given you more respect.

Oh my god, am I just as big of a pretentious douche as he is???

This is the epidemic – hipsters have become mainstream. Having refined tastes and minority opinions are en vogue to the point that these sensibilities are no longer ideologies, but cosmetics.

As a result, I’ve developed a mental twitch. Every time I enjoy an indie film or a nice pair of boots, I second guess myself. I go to Urban Outfitters and wonder, should I really be here? When I hear a band that has an acoustic arrangement like The Shins or The Lumineers, I enjoy the music, but with a sigh.

Somewhere along the way, the hipster has cannibalized itself. As I type this post from my Macbook Pro, wearing a plaid shirt and rolled up pants, in my black plastic-rimmed Rayban glasses with my hair hard-parted to the side while sipping a Belgian Ale from a local brewery, I am giving you the middle finger, you damn hipsters.

– Chris.