You Disappoint, Urban Outhouse Shitters

If the Monopoly man was a hipster dude, he would jampack hipster hotels and Urban Outfitters on Boardwalk. The hipster market would feel quite at home at this most prestigious bit of real estate, as there doesn't seem to be an issue with accepting a $50.00 price tag on a cheap, cotton, and mass-manufactured T-shirt featuring Jimmie Walker exclaiming "Dynamite!"

No. "Dyna-rip-off!"

Who needs anymore Indiana Jones sequels when one can walk into a real live Temple of Doom seven days a week, shopping hours permitting? Urban Oufitters is fucked up like Jerry's kids, where you can buy a book that will tell you that saying fucked up like Jerry's kids is awesome for shawsome (that's in there too).

Fuck. The joy of being a pop culture junkie is in the unique, individual, and often accidental ways we stumble upon really fascinating stuff. Here the Indiana Jones parallel comes into positive play...you feel like an archaeologist...you can almost feel like you've discovered something put on this earth solely for you. Foolish and misguided thoughts indeed, but the fun is in the denial that millions of people already caught and sailed the boat long before you got there...

I don't want shit laid out for me by some dickwad buyer or merchandiser who is working towards a degree in media studies, and working their way through the White Album, wondering where the hit singles are. I don't want my tastes to be dictated by the iPod shuffle generation, thanks very much, and no, I won't be taking that $100 book that tells me I need to listen to Burt Bacharach before I die. Me and Burt are already good and firm, thanks to the vinyl bins at Goodwill.

So why this rant? One of the oldest reasons in the book. A glimmer of hope extinguished. I went in there to find some tube sox (I figured they would be a shoo-in for the long ones with retro racing stripes) and while I was browsing, some pretty incredible music came on. Wow, cool, maybe I will take away something infinitely more substantial than a pair of socks. So I asked the saleshipster what was playing. She gave me a dumbfounded look and said she would check. I was pretty baffled, I thought that was part of the gig, as a representative of hipsterdom, she would be required to know. Long story short, she didn't know. She came back and said that she couldn't find the CD cover and that the CDs were just blank-labeled company burned copies. Well, yeah, I felt burned by the company alright, and by the blank-label of a facial expression worn by their employee.

Damn. So I never got to find out which band was making this great music. I'm not about to go into a music store and ask the clerk, "you know this song? It goes...la la la la la shoo bee doo, etc." I've been on the receiving end of those requests, and after I Shawshanked my way outta record retail I vowed I would never subject that sort of torture on those still in the record racket. Feigning excitement day after day over those creepy Jonas Brothers (Jonai?) must be torture enough.

The Judas Brothers... selling out and wiping out the momentum of 50 years of pop music for a bag of 30 million pieces of silver, a bag made out of a pair of girl knickers tied up with a scrunchie.

The power of the scrunchie and it's impact upon culture and society cannot be underestimated. Go to Urban Outfitters. There's a whole book that will tell you so. For $35.95.

Currently listening to: International Velvet Soundtrack, Francis Lai