I’ve never been one for latest fashion. It’s way too much hard work trying to keep up. One misstep and you're fucked. My ex-girlfriend (from way back – she is still referred to as my ex because I’ve not had another one since her) has recently developed a beard fetish. Men with beards, that is. Not growing one of her own.
I don’t get it. A once no-chinned and zero charisma fuckwit suddenly becomes interesting and mysterious because he's grown facial hair for a year and looks like he’s just finished chopping wood. If you live in a log cabin, gather honey, trap small animals and make your own hinges via blacksmithing methods, I’d come and shake your hand, but like those cunts hanging out at Warm & Glad: they do not. I repeat: do-fucking-not do those things.
And buying sleeveless puff jackets from ‘Cape Union Mart’ doesn't fucking count as really being a rugged outdoor adventurer either. It’s fake manliness. You live in a flat in Hyde Park that your parents bought for you after you dropped out of WITS where you house your wobbly wind-up turntable that can play 78s, a single-gear bicycle and free-trade coffee plunger (after getting rid of your CDJs, in-line skates and USN whey-protein tornado shaker) It’s all a farce. An illusion. And the girls that fall for this shit are as dumb as those that go for the smooth gym boys with their BMWs who still live at home or those cunts who all went and bought long black leather coats after watching The Matrix and looked angry all the time like they’d been relieved of sniper duty. Just try and talk these people and you’ll see that there is nothing there. No substance. It’s all frontage. Window dressing. A facade designed to trick the viewer in to thinking they are something they are not.
The problem with people who think they know everything is that they take up space amongst those of us that do.
Whenever there is hipster talk, there is inevitably music reference. Lets get something straight – music snobbery has been around for a long time and I’m fucked if some bunch of commune-living, hairy cunt-faces in plaid shirts, braces, horn-rimmed glasses with no lenses who own looms are going to claim ownership of that time honoured tradition. Anyone can be into bands no one has ever heard of. It's super easy. Christ, you can make up bands and people will nod knowingly.
Here are a bunch of traditional beardo weirdos not on your typical hipster quill-and-ink hand-written mixtape (with edible organic rice paper insert):
Cat Stevens (Andrew the DJ: be-fucking-ware. Borderline Stevens territory)
Let it be known that Michael McDonald is the undisputed king of yacht rock and the voice of a generation. I was spinning Doobie Brothers 12"s when you were still learning to wipe your arse.
MELVIN (hates everything)