imp_perfect

"Annoy, tiny blonde one. Annoy like the wind!"

Thursday, July 28, 2005

Please Sir, I Want Some More ... Wholly Inappropriate Ideas for Theme Parks

Come for the cold porridge, stay for the petty theft and bone-harrowing sweatshop work.

The Direst Place on Earth!

Dickens' London Indoor Theme Park

People need people ... but not that bad.

Paul

Apparently, German twenty-something loneliness is a trend. (Blame Hitler.)

But, see, that guy over there, that's Paul. He's not posing for a stylized online personal photo. He's wallpaper.

When you're living alone and can't stand your own company and you're sick of sitcom laugh tracks being the closest thing you've got to human interaction, you stick one of this company's two-dimensional "roommates" up and, voila! Talking to yourself just got more depressing.

As someone who, after seeing a horror movie, even a really poorly made one (most, these days), will jump even upon catching a peripheral glimpse of my reflection in the mirror -- thinking some doom-bringing body has entered the room --- I don't know what to make of this, the latest trend (Oh God, I hope not.) for solo apartment dwellers.

It's gotta be a joke, right?

Maybe.

But each of these wall-people serves a different purpose. "Paul" likes watching TV. "Priscilla" is the party queen (who never moves -- but also never needs her drink freshened!) "Christine K." will advise you on what to wear. And those voices in your head will tell you how to tie the noose.

As someone who lived alone for a good deal of time, I can attest to the positives (no splitting the phone bill, no being questioned on why you're hogging the TV to replay the finale of Buffy for the third time, no weird odors that you can't identify that must be attributable to someone else) and the negatives (not having some to reassure you that the Mothman from that bad Richard Gere movie is not outside your window.) Yet, no matter how empty your apartment seems with just you in it, I can't imagine a glossy German is going to make you feel like you're not whipping up Rice-a-Roni for one.

And how weird would it be to introduce the company you do occasionally have to your Photoshopped wallmate?

What make me wonder the most, though, is: Who are these people posing to be substitutes for actual friends? I mean, don't they find it disconcerting to know that their likenesses are serving to further reclusiveness? Won't they wonder what lonely urbanites are saying to them in the middle of the night? Isn't it a bit weird to knowingly partake in one-sided conversations? To imagine that day your permanently-reclining-and-silent form will likely be dumped for wallpaper half-chosen by a roommate with a pulse? To know that, for now, you're being used?

I mean, wouldn't it be a lot like going on, say, the Web, to read someone else's thoughts and opinions and never necessarily getting a chance to air your own and just allowing that person a forum for self-indulgence and an audience and ...

Oh.

Sunday, July 24, 2005

-ster crazy

You know your pretentious yet easily-categorized "scene" is coming to an end when you can purchase a novelty handbook about you and your peers.

Cases in point:

The Official Preppy Handbook (published 1980)

The Official Slacker Handbook (published 1994) -- Only one left on Amazon.com but more are on the way for nostalgic Gen-Xers.

And, most recently:

The Hipster Handbook (published early 2003) -- Buy it used on Amazon and see where an early hipster spilled cappucino ... on the page about overpriced coffeehouse syndicates!

A Field Guide to the Urban Hipster (published late 2003, as a habit common to hipsters is "reading," there came a need for two books.)

The LA Times this week ran an article pointing out a "trend" toward defecting hipsters: The un-hipsters? The hip-less? The Who Cares?

According to the article, to be a hipster is a lot of work. A ton of effort, really, just to keep ahead of the only semi-hip Joneses. What with the Internet, the blogosphere, the proliferation of still-edgy-and-underground-but-could-get-mentioned-on-The-O.C.-any-day-now-killing-their-"hip"-factor webzines, music, movies and books; the constant barrage from supposed trendmakers divulging that what you wore five minutes ago is, um, so five minutes ago. And why would you want to go back to five minutes ago? Five minutes ago is so 1987, Heather. (Oops, just been told pop culture references are decidedly unhip.)

To be a true hipster, you can't like what you like if even a mini-majority of someone elses already like it. You've better be on the prowl at all moments, finding the newer because the new is old.

As much as the article holds some truth -- I mean, why cultivate your hipsterdom if even your leisure time ends up feeling worklike -- it sort of misses the point.

That being, there is no "hip."

Originating from the word "hep," hip's definition is
characterized by a keen informed awareness of or involvement in the newest developments or styles (Merriam-Webster)


And the word "hip" was not invented to describe the hipster as they were defined earlier this decade.

However, there is pretty solid agreement that the word "hip" is a variant of "hep" meaning "wise to" or "informed." During the 1930s, some of the big-bands of swing, like Benny Goodman's and Count Basie's, were called "hep," meaning the musicians and arrangers were "in the know." A later phrase of similar meaning would be "in tune with." Jazz devotees were called "hep-cats" although the term was not popular among the musicians themselves. (Straight Dope)


Going by the dictionary definition, hip could as easily be used to describe someone well-informed and in the know with regard to the latest trends in kitten sweatshirts or Franklin Mint collectors' plates. ("Wow, Betty, I haven't even seen this Dale Earnheart memorial plate in the Pennysaver yet and you've already got that one and the Pope Benedict and Justice John Roberts commemorative plaster statues. You are so HIP!")

You could be a hip gardener. A hip stamp collector. A hip hypochondriac. ("I think I have a rare and nearly undiscovered disease common only in squirrels." "Well, Earl, that's cause you're so dang HIP!")

Because, really, all hip requires is that you be a bit better than well-versed on whatever it is that interests you. Which is potentially pretty cool until you realize that you can't be a hip devotee of network television, blockbuster movies, major league baseball or classic rock because those things are all purposely omitted from the true hipster repertoire.

The "hipster," as it were, is just yet another social construct. Something probably invented by a group of marketing executives to simplify, categorize and underexplain a new youth culture. A handy checklist of traits, characteristics and concrete "must-haves" (from an ironically out-of-touch slogan T-shirt to a pair of ugly-chic eyeglasses to a vintage-look record player to a copy of Adbusters magazine to wrap around a decidedly unhip copy of US Weekly) to make an attempt at an all-encompassing "trend" that really doesn't suit everyone that they're trying to reach.

No matter what the construct, eventually there will come a backlash, a defection to something more simple or more complex. The LA Times piece goes on to say how that virtual stomping ground of hipsters, CraigsList, has gone from a holding place of ads for apartments in hip neighborhoods and jobs in hip industries, now features an activities section for unhip activities, from bowling and lacrosse to badminton and chess.

The movement toward these old-school hobbies will likely gain a name like Sincerism and its denizens be called Sincerists. Never once is it considered just a natural progression of time, that the original hipsters have matured and just like what they like, hipness be damned.

As someone born in 1977, just between the end of Generation X and the beginning of Generation Y, sort of in between "slacker" and "hipster" -isms, maybe it's easier for me to comment as an impartial outsider. Maybe those of us to enter our 20s at the tailend of a decade -- notice all those aforementioned handbooks are published at the outset of the 80s, 90s and 00s -- are able to escape quick categorization.

And, well, that's pretty damn cool, don't you think?

Friday, July 08, 2005

Pardon My Dust

When I started this thing more than a year ago, I really thought I'd write daily, getting pissed off or laughing so hard at the state of the world that -- every time I sat at a computer with no goal in mind (translation: sat, eyes glazed in my Batcave-like cubicle feeling decidedly like my scheduled work for the day was meaningless and at least by blogging I might be rewarded by a comment or two) -- I would write endlessly, expound profusely (and possibly profanely) and therefore have this virtual log of my take.

Yeah, but you know better.

At least I've been up to something, I guess. If you've noticed, I've got a new address, and not just in the Webverse. We've moved from Oak Lawn, Illinois to Los Angeles, California (well, Burbank, California, to be specific.)

So, okay, what does that mean to you, dear reader?

To be honest, I don't know.

The election's over, and my hopes for the electorate changing its mind one blog entry at a time has been proven erroneous.

Lindsay Lohan has proven she can shrink her breasts as fast as she can grow them.

Vanity Fair beat me to outing Deep Throat.

And Harry Potter continues to be one of the nation's last hopes for literacy and not "just waiting til they make a movie of it."

So maybe I've gone wrong, trying to focus on the big stuff. Maybe there's something in the little stuff.

Guess we'll see...
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