A couple weeks ago Alex and I went to some sort of outdoor food festival thing. I’m not really sure what it was called or what it was for, but it made us feel very social and very cool. We spent the rest of the weekend patting each other on the back like “Look at us! We left the house, and it wasn’t just to go buy Cheezits!”
I like to save my extrovert points for things like BlogU because any time you leave the house you run the risk of running into someone you know.
They say: “Aussa, hi!”
I say: “….”
I’m too busy thinking “Is there still enough time to decide I don’t want to be here right now?”
We’d already waited 50 minutes for a BBQ sandwich, there was no way we were giving up and running away– I had to count my losses and endure a social interaction. Not once, but twice. The worst part is having to introduce them to Alex.
How I introduced Guy #1: “This is Micah, we went to college together.”
What I wanted to say about Guy #1: “This is Micah, we once ate Nigerian food together while discussing Wealth of Nations. I think he was there the night I cried in front of 300 people about how messed up my family is. That was before I realized it was kind of funny. Do you think I should tell him how well-adjusted I am now?”
How I introduced Guy #2: “This is Derek, he worked with my brother on that campaign.”
What I wanted to say about Guy #2: “This is Derek, he once sent me a drunken message at 3AM about how he was in love with me and we should be together but I didn’t see it until 8AM, after he’d sent me another one about deleting me on Facebook because I was tempting him to sin.”
It ended up taking an hour and fifteen minutes to get our brisket sandwiches, but we couldn’t complain because complaining is so mainstream. We had to suck the marrow out of the moment and embrace the company of exquisitely tattooed young people with ironically ugly dogs. I couldn’t roll my eyes or else they’d know I wasn’t one of them. They’d revoke my PBR if they knew I didn’t live in an old house with 19 other people who all share a green volvo named “Marge.”
Thankfully, the night redeemed itself. A few paces from the food truck was a carefree group of hipsters in fedoras, their A-cup boobs swung freely in their fair-trade cheesecloth halter tops. They sat at a table covered in typewriters with a large hand written sign:
“$10 for a poem.”
Obviously I couldn’t resist partaking in this most hipster of hipsterisms. Because why would anyone type on a lightweight computer–that can compute complex mathematical equations while analyzing your DNA and storing enough data for a movie of your life– when you can use a 20-pound hunk of metal with sticky keys and no backspace? Sounds like an authentic experience to me. It’s pretty much like being transported back to the good old days when people had real emotions and walked around talking like Thoreau and having libraries named after them.
I hastily filled out my request for a poem and handed it to the guy behind the table. He looked at me with unimpressed yet angst-ridden eyes. His bleach blonde locks were slicked back in a “no thank you daddy you can keep your trust fund” sort of way.
He read it over.
“Hacker…Ninja…. Hooker… Spy…?”
I nodded. He looked at me, a finger over his lips.
“So.. these are things that are important to you?”
“Yes,” I said.
Alex began fading into the background, staring wistfully down the street, wondering why we couldn’t invest our $10 in a higher form of art, like beer drinking.
“So these words, as an idea?”
“Yes,” I said again. “Hacker Ninja Hooker Spy as a concept. Dare I say, an identity.”
He rushed to his typewriter, struck with inspiration. Ten minutes later, I had a fancy little scroll tied with ethically-produced, fair-trade yarn from the indigenous peoples of a faraway land:
I unrolled it, ready to discover something true about myself, ready to finally come to terms with who I am in this world.
I’m not so sure this is a poem. It reads more like a third person entry from my personal diary. Doing inappropriate things on airplanes? Coming up with metaphors for sex? Hacking people? Reminiscing on my childhood? Psshh. I expected more, hipsters. I expected more.
Have you ever inspired a poem, story, or work of art? Are you an extrovert or an introvert?
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