I'm outta here for the holiday folks. Yep, off to the heartland for booze and bundt cake with the other bearers of my genes.

Exercise In Futility, or, Hipster Flag Football — Prospect Park, Brooklyn, Dec. 3, 2002

"Okay, so like, I guess we need to pick team captains? So, who wants to be a team captain?"
A mumbling chorus broke through the 10 bleary-eyed hipsters shivering on the grass at Prospect Park, waiting to start playing their flag football game.
"Wait wait! Hold on dudes, everybody can't be a team captain. We're gunna need two teams right? So, like, we only need two team captains. So I'll be one, and, uh, as the first team captain I guess I'll choose the other team captain."
"Fuck that shit," said Billy trying to touch his toes. "Why should you get to choose the other team captain? We never even got to choose if you should be team captain. That's totally undemocratic, man. Sorry but it is."
Another, more ardent mumbling fit, broke through the ranks now.
"Hey," said a portly hipster dressed in a gray Eddie Bauer sweatsuit, still creased from its package. "I'm going over to Connecticut Muffin to get some coffee while you guys figure out the teams, anybody want anything?"
"Yeah, I'll have a cinnamon-walnut muffin, thanks Roger."
"Get me one too, and a latte, large,"
"I'll have a latte too, a small one with skim milk,"
"Umm, if they have a corn muffin, I'll have that, and a small coffee. Have them warm up the muffin too, okay?"
"I just want a small coffee, with soymilk. Get one of those holder things for it; I don't want to burn my hands. You rock, Roger. Hey, can I bum a smoke from you real quick before you go?"
"Sure," said Roger. "I'll be right back."
He started off, jogging a little to break in the sweatsuit.
"Okay," said James. "So like, how do you want to decide on the team captains?"
"Shit, I guess we could race?" said Billy.
"I just ate breakfast man," said a hipster with a crooked mesh-trucker cap, patting his tummy. "I don't wanna get all cramped up before the game."
"Matt's got a point. Plus, it's not very democratic to race," said a bespectacled hipster in a black Pea Coat. “I mean, basing privilege on physical ability is pretty much free market anarchy, shouldn’t it be based on a majority vote?”
“Hello dumbass? This whole game is undemocratic!” said Billy.
“Yeah, fuck off Brian,” said James. “I didn’t even want to play in the first place. I just thought we could all use some exercise. Roger’s the one who said we should play fucking football.”
“Look, why don’t we just race, then we can all get some exercise and settle the team captain thing in one shot,” said Billy.
“Fine,” said James scanning the field, “Ok, here, look guys. We all race to that bench over there and …”
"What the hell is this? A fucking Ayn Rand novel?" said Brian. "Can't we figure this out without resorting to some hamfisted, symbolic …"
“Go!” said James, flinging off his corduroy blazer, his head aimed at the tree in the distance.
"Jesus Christ! Fuck you James! This isn't fair!" Brian stamped his feet and tore off his thick, black-framed glasses.
The rest of the hipsters all set off in a hurry, flinging off their woolen scarves, unbuttoning their chain wallets, and flicking their cigarette butts into the dewy air.
Their bodies clunked terribly as they jogged, and the shock of this alien exertion reverberated through the various segments of their bodies until it looked as though their very atoms would disintegrate were it not for the corduroys and too-tight ironic t-shirts holding them together.
James was standing — no — holding the tree, panting intensely, as the parade of fumbling hipsters sputtered off like buck shot, some falling to the ground, some holding their knobby knees, staring intently at the ground, wheezing.
Brian stood — hands on his hips — back at the starting line about 200 yards away, smiling.
"Hey!" yelled James, making his way back. "What the hell are you doing? You're never gunna get chosen for a team with an attitude like that!"
"Whatever," said Brian, lighting a cigarette.
The hipster parade gathered their coats and sat on the grass back at the starting line massaging their pulled muscles.
"You're such a pussy, Brian," said Billy.
"Shut up," said James. "It's settled, I'm team captain number one and Billy is team captain number two."
"No way!" said Brian. "You didn't give any warning. I refuse to recognize that race as legitimate."
"Just 'cause you lost," said Billy.
"I didn’t lose," said Brian. "I refuse to submit to the legitimacy of that race. I am a conscientious objector."
"Dude you're taking this shit way too seriously," said James.
"That's what the cheaters always say," said Brian.
"You’re the one making this fucking game into an Ayn Rand novel, not us," said James. "Who the fuck ever heard of being a conscientious objector to a goddamned football game anyway!"
"Whatever," said Brian.
"Okay," said James. "I pick Matt."
"Actually," said Matt, fiddling with his mesh-trucker cap. "I think Brian's got a point. The way the race was conducted wasn't fair at all. I think I'm gunna have to go with him on this one. I'm gunna be a conscientious objector too."
"Jesus Christ!" said James. "Okay Matt, have it your way. I pick Chris."
Chris just shook his head: "Sorry man, I can’t submit to tyranny."
Billy punched Chris in the shoulder.
"Okay, fuck the race," said James. "As soon as Roger gets back from Connecticut Muffin with the football we'll play one game of 500 and that's how we'll decide on team captains. Is that okay with everybody?"
Grunts of approval wound their way through the group.
In the distance they saw Roger approaching with an armful of paper bags.
"Hey guys," said Roger. "Here take these bags and get your shit. Whose team am I on?"
"We're about the figure that out," said James. "Where's the football?"
"I don't have a football," said Roger, laughing. "What do you think I am? Some kinda jock?"
"Did anybody bring a fucking football?" James yelled.
But the hipsters were already gorging themselves on muffins and lattes and paid no attention.

Once again, I am pleased to announce that my latest Hipster Snapshot of the Week can be read here at www.nypress.com in the New York City section. Tell me what you think, dear readers.

Step right up folks! Step right up and have all your hipster questions answered! Denim or Polyester? Hesse or Rilke? Pills or Coke? Mimosa or Bloodymary? Brian Wilson or, uh … ah yes, you there! You, right there with the lazy eye and the hairy upper lip! Go ahead son:

"Hi Aimee, I stumbled upon your website via memepool.com. A friend of mine mentioned that my moustache might qualify me to be a hipster. I haven't been to New York for about a year and a half, but she tells me that the moustache is quite popular now. I'm tempted to join the ranks of the hip, and I'm willing to start doing coke, so will my moustache cut it? I refuse to wear tight black jeans. Thanks for your advice, Branch"

Ahh, the moustache. Ahh yes, the coke. Heading into the sagging U.S. economy and with the populist cream soon to rise to a rolling curd, but not before the last remnants of excessive late 90s devil-be-damned wealth peters off into the enflamed nostrils of a New York City bathroom stall electroclash garbage party, I think you really might have your finger on the next hipster pulse. The moustache says something, Branch. I suggest you shave it immediately though and let it grow beginning today to follow the breaking wave. Fabled Polish union leader Lech Walesa shaved his even more fabled handlebar earlier this year, leaving the quivering upper lips of a generation yearning for another to take his place. But like I said, let it grow starting today, that way you can set the marker: As the moustache grows, so will your coke habit, assuming you can afford to buy. As your coke habit grows, you will make your way into the Williamsburg crowd, then maybe you can start an electroclash band consisting of you and a melted Korg that you traded for an eightball down at Luxx from some dude who told you it used to belong to Peaches. Then, when the moustache gets long enough to conceal your upper lip, allowing you to sneer less noticeably, you can get into a fight with your cokehead bruise-eyed electroclash girlfriend over whether Ian Curtis hung himself with barbed wire, and in a fit of rage she flings your vintage ceramic Camel ashtray at you, the one shaped like a Turkish palace, shattering it against your loft wall and punching a sizeable hole in the drywall you just put in a few days before. A sneer will knit your hairy lip like a caterpillar. Then you take off on your motorized scooter North on Bedford, but there's another transit strike and the snarled traffic piles up behind you. You gun the scooter for all it's worth, and you hear somebody yell "Pindeho," and the whiskers of your coke-frosted moustache are bundled with the petulant white ooze from your nose, the stuff you usually swallow, but tonight you aren't thinking about that. The headlines are screaming about the economy, the goddamned economy! Oh Jesus! And it's struggling slowly, ever more slowly, like a rabbit in the tightening hug of a python. Your scooter swings west on Seventh, top speed: 23 mph when you plow into the legs of a giant Dominican man, throwing him to the icy street over your back. But you hit the street harder because the Dominican stands up and breaks your cracker-ass jaw along with your nose, which turns your moustache a creamy pink color, like a candycane. He wipes himself off and walks away, but you stay until a picketing MTA employee calls the ambulance.

Despite the wired jaw, they let you keep the moustache. You get a bunch of flannel shirts from your mom for Christmas and your arraignment on possession charges falls on the third day of the New Year. Your moustache is still growing. You're one of those moustached guys in NA who always hangs around for an hour afterward smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup. You get a job with the MTA and join the Union, and by the time the next Transit strike commences two years later, you're heading up the local chapter — involved in negotiations — your handlebar moustache is splashed across the screen of New York 1 and people start calling you Lech. And not to worry, by this time to Union's bargaining power has grown.

There has been an inexplicably large spike in traffic to the Forum in the past day. Would you please tell me where you found it in the comment box below? Thanks.

Critically Wounded — East Village, Dec. 1, 2002

A speeding cab tapped its horn and pushed through a handful of people crossing the street at St. Marks and Ave. A.
"See that shit?"
"What?"
"That taxi. He almost ran me over completely!" Billy raised his middle finger to the back of the taxi, now drawing away.
"Fuck you asshole!"
"I know, these guys are nuts," said James.

Billy and James were flushed and full having just stepped out of 7A where they had brunch.

"I don't give a shit what their hurry is, that's just plain ridiculous," said Billy. "They should do something about the goddamn taxis; traffic here is fucking wounded."
"I know dude," said James. "Sometimes I just want to put my boot right through the windshield."

They walked along St. Marks toward Cooper Square juggling their to-go coffees and newspapers, trying not to get entangled in the wires from their iPods that sprung from their Yak-Paks. Billy wore a mesh cap and reflective aviator glasses, but still he squinted. The volume on his iPod was too loud because he was listening to a mix he made for the bartender at Welcome To The Johnson's and he wanted to test it for walkability before giving it to her. But from one song to the next the volume varied widely.

"Goddamn!" Billy said, gripping his iPod. "Why the fuck didn't they make the iPod so the volume adjusts to the individual songs? That's so unbelievably wounded."

"I dunno," said James. "I think Apple was much cooler back in the Mac 128 days. Steve Jobs is a fucking fascist now anyway."
"Yeah, Steve Jobs is like critically wounded dude," said Billy. "The guy's a megalomaniac, I mean, did you know the default date setting on all Macs is his birthday?"
"You've got to be kidding," said James.
"Swear to God," said Billy. "At least Bill Gates gives money to India for AIDS."

It was a blustery, clear day and a gale of wind whipped down the street.

"Fuck!" said James, spilling coffee down his front. "I fucking hate the wind! It's just so fucking frustrating! God, it is sooo wounded!"
"Yeah, why the hell do those fuckers fill up the to-go coffee cups so full?" said Billy. "Don't they understand that people get the coffee to-go so they can walk around with it?"
"I know, it's wounded dude," said James, sucking coffee from his fingers. "Fuck, now my hand's gunna be all sticky."
"And then," said Billy. "To stop the coffee from going all over the place they put about a hundred napkins on top to soak it all up. Then you got a big handful of sticky, wet napkins. You can't even blow your nose in them; they're instantly ruined! Reeeal ecological, huh?"
"Christ! I thought I told him one sugar," said James wincing. "I thought that bodega was pretty good up until now."
"No way dude," said Billy. "That place is totally wounded. You knew that. Remember when we got those turkey sandwiches after the Yeah Yeah Yeahs show and the bread was like totally stale?"
"It was that place?"
"Yeah, and their mayo tasted like somebody pissed in it."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"I didn't really think they could fuck up the coffee," said Billy.
"You'd be surprised," said James. "And you can always tell the really bad bodegas because the lids to their coffee cups have these defective drinking flaps that don't stay down, they don't hook right, see?"
James pushed back the plastic flap and it sprung up again.
"Tell me that is not so fucking wounded?"
"It totally is," said Billy. "Then the coffee gets all cold before you can finish it."
Billy threw his coffee into the street, then James did the same.
"There's always Starbucks," said James.
"Yeah right. There's always ten Starbucks," said Billy. "I fucking hate Starbucks. Hey, let's hit Other Music, I wanna see if they have the new Donnas record."
"Did you check Ear Wax yet?" said Billy. "I bet they have it cheaper. Plus, I personally think Other Music is wounded. It's totally commercial. I mean just look at it, it's right next to Tower Records."
"Dude, you wanna talk wounded?" said James. "I already checked at Cock Wax and the guy was a total prick, he was all: 'Uhh, dude. It's not even, like, out yet. It's still on, like, order dude.' And I was like: 'Hello dude? I've got the fucking release date right here. Hello? I work at a fucking record label, dude. I think I know how this stuff works a little better than you.'"
"Did you really say that?"
"No, but I should have," said James. "Oh shit! I just remembered! I don't have any fucking money. My dad forgot to deposit the check. Man, maybe I should just go home, this day is already totally wounded."
"Yeah, I think I ate too much anyway," said Billy. "I hate that, don't you? I wish they just had food pills because eating is such a pain in the ass."
"Tell me about it," said James. "I think I'm gunna call my dad real quick."
James pulled out his cell phone, then Billy pulled out his cell phone too.
"What the fuck?"
James was staring off at the sky above the Cooper Union. "I'm not getting any reception! Fuck! Verizon is wounded dude. Jesus! It's so fucking frustrating!"
"Shut up dude!" said Billy, stopping to cover his receiver. "I'm on the phone!"
"Fuck you!" said James. "You're the one who's always bitching about shit! You're so fucking wounded, dude!"
"I'm wounded?" said Billy. "I can't believe you! You're the one who's fucking woooo —"

A speeding taxi hit James and Billy as they crossed Third Avenue.

"Talk to me! Talk to me! C'mon son!"

Billy was conscious, but wavering. The paramedic squatted over him, touching his cheek.

"So whatta we got?" asked a policeman.
The paramedic stood and turned to him: "Looks like we got two: Critically Wounded."

With the fucking freezing weather and the holiday season upon us and the steam heat hissing all night long, my charity bone has lately wiggled its way out of the perpetually frozen yolk of my soul, and I suddenly feel the urge to do something that could help somebody instead of just bitching about stuff all the time. So, I heard on the radio this morning about Operation Santa and I thought I should satiate the biting guilt that threatens to spoil my cantankerous mood by spreading the guilt to all of you. The New York Post Office gets tons of letters every year from poor, deluded children who actually believe Santa Claus exists and that he will answer their pleading letters and buy them presents. And in order to help perpetuate this fantasy the Post Office asks volunteers to pretend they're Santa and respond to the letters. I don’t know the details, i.e. if you must buy the kid a gift, but golly, you get to pretend you're Santa! And what a great catharsis for kids like me who were emotionally crushed beyond repair to find out that Santa wasn't real. As my mother always says: "It's the least you can do, you self-absorbed little bitch!"

Also, I've decided to launch a 'questions answered' section for all the sick fuckers out there who want to push my buttons. So go ahead and ask, you slimy bastards.