Hipster Complex

Hipsters, I know what you're thinking. You think you're so cool. You have greasy hair, big sunglasses and a fine collection of skinny jeans and vintage T-shirts. You like vinyl. You stutter when you talk. You have cultivated a dead look in your eyes that is partially due to the totally cool, hip late night you had being a scenester hipster and doing a shit load of designer drugs. Your voice is horse from too many cigarettes, the almost-empty package of which is rolled up on your skinny arm in the folds of said vintage T-shirt.

But guess what, hipster. I know where you shop. You have to shop for your clothes just like everyone else, and that belt looks awfully similar to something I saw at Target. It's okay. Don't be ashamed that you don't always have the dough or the cunning to sniff out hipster fashionista ensembles out of the dumpster or the couture boutique. You're only human. And let's face it, sometimes you just need a package of white socks.

You see, hipster, I sympathize, because I'm not a hipster. I know hipsters. I have hipster friends, but I am not of their ilk. I am familiar with your materialistic trappings, your vague and cutting edge raison d'être, your vegan shoe collection and indie sensibilities . . . and I won't judge you for buying Starfucks frappuccinos or caring about politics or secretly worshipping bubblegum hip hop princesses. I won't judge you because I know you suffer from a particular malady known as the hipster complex. It's okay to talk about it. Let it out. Maybe, just maybe you can reconcile your need to be hip and crass with your softer, fodder-for-the-masses loving self. One can only hope.

The Dark Friend

My dark friend and I have become fast friends once again. You know, we were on and off for a while, seeing each other sporadically, but now it's hot and heavy . . . err, actually, it's over ice, three shots that is, topped off with more ice.

Me everyday at the local coffee hole: "Hi. Three shots of espresso over lots of ice topped off with more ice. I like it ICY! Please."

In short, I like the dark friend cold. I like the dark friend fresh. I really like the dark friend to be organic, too. But mostly, I like three shots of the dark friend each and every day.

I started drinking coffee at the tender age of 15 when I discovered two of my true passions in life: coffee and books. At age sixteen I discovered what at the time seemed like a normal occurence in the coffee world: the most divinely perfect iced mocha in creation. I went to high school in a one-horse town with a hippy deli/coffee shop walking distance from campus. The husband-wife team who owned and ran the establishment put a lot of love into all of the things they made, most notably, the coffee drinks. Little did I know that such a perfect iced mocha was a rarity to be deeply appreciated and cherished. In my innocence I assumed that divine iced mochas were readily available, especially beyond the podunk reaches of my hometown. I have since confirmed, over and over again, that I was mistaken. Even in the most worldly of locations I have failed to find an iced mocha that has matched the perfection of those early days. The deli/coffee shop responsible for such a magical creation has long since closed upon the divorce of the couple . . . sometimes, I feel like tracking them down for an interview to see if one of them would be willing to impart the secrets of that perfect balance of espresso, chocolate, milk and ice that was strong but not too strong, sweet but not too sweet, rich but not too rich . . . each and every time.

You see, it is that iced mocha that truly sparked my life-long love affair with the dark friend. Of course now, with the perfect mocha remaining ever elusive and high in calories and sugar, I opt for three swift, unadulterated shots. Mmmm . . . . dark friend? Will you be mine forever?