Chip: "This crew is probably not smart enough to have masterminded the recent 'SHOUT PEACE' graffiti at the Oread Inn, but I think we should pin that crime on them anyway."
Richard: "These are budding young artists whose work should be encouraged. I hope, at the most, they are sentenced to a bit of community service working for the Percolator or Wonder Fair."
And speaking of the Oread Inn, for a mere $295 you can participate in this weekend's social media conference being held there, in which "experts" will tell you how to get the most out of your on-line networking experiences.
Here's a photo from a conference presentation by Chris Brogan, author of "Social Media 101":
Richard: "I want my $295 back."
The boys do their best to attend all "important" hipster events, but we can't be everywhere at once and we often can't be hanging out at the Jackpot at 1:00 a.m on a fucking Wednesday. Therefore, we occasionally employ special correspondents (paid in PBR or Hamm's) who infiltrate these events and give us the scoop we need. Here's a piece by someone calling him/herself "The Unknown Hipster" which documents this Wednesday's performance by everyone's favorite costumed hipster-collective Mammoth Life at the Jackpot. Thanks for your work!
"It's rare nowadays to find yourself at home at the Jackpot. Whateverthefuck is going on with the Jackpot's ceilings, for example, is not hospitable. The ceiling above the stage seems particularly inhospitable, what with all those chunks of sound-absorbing tile hanging down, nearly scraping whatever hipster band-collective happens to be on the stage (if, of course, the band members have already managed to miss banging into the handle of the projector screen that's also hanging down from the ceiling above the stage). But Mammoth Life considers the Jackpot to be their "home," as their garment (Chip: Costume. You mean "costume") designer explained to your reporter. That might explain the front-yard-sized potted plants -- two red-flowered shrubs and at least one cactus -- and a fake campfire of wood bolted to canned air blowing against a lighted swatch of orange cloth placed at the front of the stage. If you don't feel right at home with all that, you obviously need another PBR. Or four. And if that doesn't get your '89 Volvo engine revving, you'll surely feel at least welcomed and loved by the strings of red lights shaped into hearts that Mammoth Life have put on their amps. I just knew those motherfuckers wanted to give us all a big hug and boil some coffee for us on their fake fire.
Mammoth Life, for all their efforts at heart-warming, are incredibly morose on stage. All of the members -- a guy on bass, a guy on guitar, and a chick apiece on violin, drums, and keyboard -- keep their eyes on the ground and a frown on their faces. This works, mostly because it gives the crowd a chance to take in the prairie-themed garments (Chip: This is bullshit) for which ML have traded in the pompadour-meets-pirate outfits. The designer informed your reporter that each band member gets to make a choice about their clothes, which explains why the bassist got away with tuxedo-shirt ruffles on a cardigan while everyone else looked like they'd made their simple dresses and trousers from left over covers from the covered wagon where the band surely lives.
The audience was half in front of the stage and half at the bar, imagining themselves to be the disaffected survivors of Quantril's Raid. All the while, your reporter couldn't help but think that the Jackpot smelled ever so slightly of piss. When [he/she] expressed this concern to the garment (Chip: FUCK!) designer, he said, "Well, I'd like to get back to nature, so I'm starting to make dyes from my own urine. It's something that indigenous peoples have been doing forever."
And with that, your reporter put down the PBR and asked for a shot of vodka. The PBR looked too much like "dye."
Chip: "Enjoyable report, but I'm not sure it fully channels my voice. After all, I did not make a single boner joke!"