This post was inspired by mrmarymuthafuckingpoppins and Howtodateboys date story. They made a reference about “scenesters” and it got me thinking. Hipsters, (scenester cousins), trip me out and I think the ultimate hipster date would go something like this:
Man- Sebastian, Nickname “Basty”
Woman- Sara, Nickname Clementine
The First Meeting:
It was a normal day for both Basty and Clementine and neither of them had a clue that they would meet each other in such “ironic” fashion.
By the way, this story could take place in any urban city where a formerly “bad” neighborhood is currently being transformed into the trendy place to live.
You know what I mean; hot dog vendors have been replaced by rolling craft beer stands, etc.
They both woke up in their respective studio apartments (about 10 blocks apart from each other) at about 3 in the afternoon and decided to go shopping for vintage records and obscure movies, of course.
While looking for the soundtrack to “Eraserhead”, Basty was entranced by the sudden smell of patchouli floating in the air.
As he looked up, he saw Clementine fingering the Muddy Waters 1944 album “Country Blues”. Sparks immediately flew into the air like the first day that the term “Indie-Music” was coined.
Hi there, I’m Sebastian, but my cronies call me Basty. How about you accompany me to spoken word night tomorrow at Randal’s,” he said.
“Hi, I’m Sara, but everyone calls me Clementine. What’s Randal’s?” she replied.
“Oh it’s just a little, ironic bar that has incredible craft beer and transcendent poets. I heard Misti Rainwater-Lites may stop by,” said Basty.
Without hesitation, Clementine said she would cancel her harp lessons and would meet Basty there at midnight.
Basty arrived a good 20 minutes early to secure a table and survey the scene.
He was wearing a newly bought pair of light brown corduroy pants, a fake tuxedo shirt and a vintage, lime-green trucker hat with the word “LONER” written across the front. (His entire wardrobe was purchased at thrift stores and Salvation Army’s, of course.)
He ordered a fantastically obscure beer that was brewed in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains called, “Squeel-Like-A-Pig Ale,” and a Pabst Blue Ribbon to chase it.
As Bon Iver lazily played on the bar jukebox, Clementine walked through the door with a confidant grin. She looked like a vintage, retro, pin-up angel.
Her blond hair was twisted into a side ponytail, littered with purple streaks and what looked like wildflowers placed randomly around her forehead. A henna tattoo flowed gracefully from the back of her right earlobe down towards her cleavage.
She wore an old white, wife beater undershirt with an airbrushed slogan that said, “Kiss My Grits.” (An obvious tribute to the old sitcom Alice.) Her jeans were very tight, very skinny and the words, “Of Course My Clit is Pierced,” were embroidered down one of the legs.
The moment she walked in, Basty’s dick tried to jump through his black, skinny jeans and he was afraid to stand up. Instead, he pulled a clove from his pocket and lit up.
“Wow, you look so epic tonight. So ethereal, so ephemeral, so every adjective that sounds like the first two I mentioned. You are like Willie Nelson, before his hair turned grey,” he said as she sat down next to him.
“You are too kind. I never try to look or act in any certain way. What you see is the real me. I can’t help it if I’m incredibly ironic without trying. As much as I like being here with you, I truly would rather be watching a documentary about the secret life of Karl Marx and his obsession with pet monkeys. It’s very cutting edge and a wildly debated theory,” she said with a smug smile.
The Ironic Ending:
After the documentary comment, Basty sensed he was losing her affection quickly. But, as luck would have it, Basty had hidden a vintage record player under the table just for this situation. He quickly plugged it in, pulled an original Johnny Cash vinyl from his messenger bad and let it play.
Clementine’s eyes lit up like all the Suicide Girls had just walked in to the bar and she began to French kiss Basty’s ear furiously.
That’s all she wrote. The Ultimate Hipster Date could very well produce the Ultimate Hipster Baby. Stay tuned.