Research Paper Rough Draft

Evolution of Hip: The Not-So-Underground Underground Scene

Walk into a local coffee shop. Note the 20-something man to your left sporting a flannel plaid button-up, accessorizing with an eccentric ethnic girlfriend. Hipster. Turn to the barista. She’s a freelance graphic design artist, amateur photographer, or creative writing major. Also a hipster. The introvert reading Salinger in the corner, the tattooed tassel drinking chai with her lesbian lover, and the newly successful architect with an ironic handlebar mustache are all hipsters. Hipsters are defined as the young, elite oddities of society with a leftist frame of mind and a middle class upbringing (Ramos). This information leads one to believe that hipsters are a splinter group, which somehow manages to seep through the cracks of capitalistic society. However, the anthropological history of America refutes this generalization. While many consider hipsters to be a select few modern Americans who reject the mainstream, hipsters have been brewing in America since slavery and are becoming the majority rather than the minority.

Hip did not protrude with Samuel Adam’s tongue as he dumped tea in the Boston Harbor, and it certainly wasn’t aboard the Mayflower. Hip is derived not from white contempt—towards British tyranny or modern politics. It begins on the antebellum plantations of Southern America (Leland 19). Hip’s story begins as a collision of cultures. African dialect infiltrated the cotton fields of the South, and began to blend with the British formalities of Southern speech. Historian Mechal Sobel stated that by the end of the colonial period, “both blacks and whites held a mix of quasi-English and quasi-African values.” (22) Even the word hip is rooted in Africa. Used as a term of enlightenment by African slaves in American, the word hip comes from the Wolof word “hipi” which means “to open one’s eyes” (Asante 7).

To briefly summarize the history of hip is to eat a hamburger in a Mexican restaurant, but is necessary for understanding. In the beginning, there was music, and the music was good. Composer Brian Eno asked, “You know why music was the center of our lives for such a long time? Because it was a way of letting Africa in.” (Leland 17). After emancipation of slaves, white Americans placed tangible restrictions on African American society. However, legalities failed to repress the beats and whines of black American blues. Soon, white men, displeased with societal patterns, went into the forest and thought about stuff. Thoreau and Whitman broke philosophical molds with transcendentalist literature. Walt Whitman gave birth to a beat inspired by African rhythms…white boy style (Leland 40). In the twenties, radios were invented, bringing rhythm to the rhythmically inept masses. Hip’s Golden Age began after World War II, with the bebop jazz of Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker (113). Jack Kerouac wrote a book called On the Road about being on the road and fucking nothing else and everybody was like “Oh, Jack Kerouac, you’re cool. Let’s be like you.” (5, 8, 10, 44, 50-52, 105, 108, ∞) And so they did.

So now, people are all like “yeah, I’m hip and indie.” But you’re not because everyone is so you fail.

Lololol.

Rfgjlgjaroge.

Human of the Year

HUMAN OF THE YEAR

INT. CATHEDRAL – DAY

Several large stained glass windows depicting the Virgin Mary and the apostles. The cathedral is illuminated and various members are dispersed throughout the pews. KARL is sitting in the fifth row to the left of the pulpit. SISTER MARIA and PRIEST are standing at the head, below a bronze statue of the Ten Commandments. PRIEST watches fondly as two young acolytes come up the pews and organ music begins. PRIEST tries unsuccessfully to speak above the music.

PRIEST

Hello…hello…

Organ music stops. PRIEST takes a drink of water.

PRIEST

This Wednesday, we will be commemorating the 7th year of our brotherhood with St. Demetrius’ in Appleton, West Virginia by planting a Spruce tree in the courtyard. Perhaps an apple tree would be more appropriate.

PRIEST laughs at his joke and quickly regains composure.

PRIEST

Sister Margaret is starting a new choral group for 7-12 year olds called ‘Sister Margaret and the Holy Sweet Merciful Blessed Descendents of Abraham.’ Also, I will be holding this week’s Young Men of the Lord club in the YMCA sauna. New members are always welcome. And now for the Lord’s Prayer.

SISTER MARIA taps PRIEST on the shoulder.

PRIEST
(distressed)
Oh, it seems I have forgotten something. Oh good gravy, to heck with it! Sister Maria, you do it.

SISTER MARIA
(bashfully)
Oh, no, no, no. Well, alright. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

SISTER MARIA kisses her fist and points up.



SISTER MARIA

Calling a Mr. Karl Projectorinski to the front of the cathedral.

ALL turn to KARL, whom is nervously clinging to the edge of his pew.

SISTER MARIA

Calling a…Karl Projectorinski…to the front…of the cathedral.

ALL are eerily chipper. WOMAN turns around to face him.

WOMAN

You have won, dear sir.

MAN extends his hand.

MAN

May I congratulate you first?

BOY

Oh, what an honor!

A moment of silence elapses. Finally KARL wipes his forehead and begins to speak.

KARL
(muttering)
What…what have I won?

WOMAN

Oh, the poor thing! What humility! Sweetheart, the contest is over. You don’t have to grace us with your charm any longer. You’ve won!

KARL

No, honestly I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.

PRIEST

Human of the Year, dear son.


SISTER MARIA

You have won!

PRIEST

All rise for the Hallelujah procession of communion!

ALL

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

PRIEST
(suspiciously)
Drink from the cup of life, Karl.

KARL takes communion. He returns and fidgets in his pew, repeatedly wiping the sweat from his brow. MAN sits beside him and places his hand on his upper thigh.

MAN

Why are you so scared? Listen, the icons are whispering to you.

KARL hallucinates that the stained glass figures are speaking to him.

APOSTLE PAUL

Right on. Way to be the chosen one, man.

APOSTLE JUDAS ISCARIOT

Psychedelic.

APOSTLE BARNABUS

Shut up, man. No one likes you.

KARL throws his shoe through the window, starting a car alarm. He shakily hides himself under the pew. BOY joins him.

BOY

They’re just old men, like on the benches in the park. Except their balding spots are glistening with gold.


PRIEST
(resting his hand on the boy)
Sweet, sweet wisdom of youth!

BOY
Listen, outside the cars are beeping in your honor! And…even though they do not know it…all mankind are now your brothers! You are the Human of the Year!


KARL
(suddenly excited)
I’m human of the year!

KARL begins crying, hugging WOMAN, etc.

KARL
I’m human of the year!

SISTER MARIA
(eerily)
Hello, hello. Calling a Karl Projectorinski to the front of the cathedral.

KARL is lulled by her voice, and makes his way to the front. He is weeping with joy. There are two acolytes on either side of SISTER MARIA. They begin beating KARL with their acolyte sticks. KARL winces in pain, and the rest stand motionless.

SISTER MARIA

You have won.

Every Three Seconds: in the works

Every three seconds, a child dies. But really, that's a fairly narrow-minded way to look at things. Every three seconds, children lay waste on hundreds of verb phrases. Children plow their way out of women's vagina's every three seconds. Children pet dogs and chase girls and ruin their aristocratic parents' social standing by spreading fleas every three seconds. They finger-paint and ribbon-dance and other things that are "creative" and "unconventional" because they're happy little hyphenated noun-verbs. They play psychological games like "who can give the most adults the most hemorrhages." And then, they grow up to be normal adults who do normal things like file tax returns and pretend not to notice when their wives gain weight every three seconds, but kids don't know that. Kids still think it would be fun to be a firefighter because firefighters wear red and are prominent figures in coloring books.

I was more like the three-second dead kid than any of the other three-second kids.

It wasn't that I was void of emotion, I was simply less susceptible to the mass conglomeration of stimuli that other children were bloated with. I did thing that my mother would label as "quirky", simply because she didn't have the vocabulary or the gall to call it like it was.

My parents weren't coffee drinkers, but after a particularly taxing day at the Metropolitan, my father made himself a cup in our hotel room.

"Can I have some?" My brother asked.
My parents chuckled that annoying adult-joke chuckle, and my father handed him the mug.
"That's disgusting," he said, quickly shoving it away.
"It's an acquired taste," my father explained. "Sometimes, you don't realize you like things at first, but later you begin to appreciate them."

For a few years following, I applied this concept to magazine and newspaper clippings. Particularly displeasing images remained tacked to my walls until family visited, and I was forced to remove them against my will. I would then replace them with equally displeasing fragments. In theory, I should have begun to admire these items with time. It soon became apparent to me that man was flawed and so were his theories.

stomach acid infedelity

these exiguous words will not
feed you
they do not contain caloric value
and they will certainly not give you
the gall
to "go naked into that good night",
sir

instead they will stay tangled
betwixt my vital organs
and it would not be shocking
if I confused my inability to speak them to you
with an appendicitis attack

please don't stick your finger down my throat
because I've been trying to abstain from
upchucking about sixty poems, some adderall, and
neglected obligations all over your face
for quite some time

so
remove your hand
before you reek of stomach acid
infidelity

and when you're ready for my honesty
I'll be sure to provide you with a more pleasant metaphor


*I quote Lawrence Ferlinghetti, not Dylan Thomas.
If it were Thomas, I'd be misquoting.

Morose

The skies were clad with shades of grey and blue, leaving just enough light to see the dark streaks of tire. I methodically turned on the air too high for comfort. Familiar jaded tunes pressed the speakers, competing against the hiss of wet streets and the broken metronome of drops on my windshield. A dull, orange light flickered on my dashboard, accosting me and my irresponsibility.

I pulled into a Valero station.

I tucked my wallet in my pocket and locked my car in fear of the Valero night creatures. The teal awning didn’t sufficiently tuck me away from the rain. Selecting the low-grade fuel, I grabbed the nozzle. A small Hispanic man lit a cigarette by the front doors. Behind him, I saw yellow—stalks of bananas. I looked again, laughing that I had mistaken individually packaged gluttony for yellow fruit. But in that instant, the neon fruit was reality. There was something other than Pall Malls or Slim Jims or other morose items with names that rhyme to disguise their grip on the mundane. Instead, there was just rain and florescent lighting.

I got in my car. The same frigid air pressed my skin, and the same drone flooded out of my speakers. I grabbed my friend’s jacket, left behind on another voyage, in hopes of reminding myself of something other than these monochromatic nights. It was grey and had a familiar, but insignificant, musk. I laid it down and drove.

Parting of the Red Sea

Fresh from the womb and cut from the vine, they dressed me in white and sprinkled holy water on my head. I imagine us fitting perfectly in that scenario. I imagine my big-haired older sister wrapping her little hand around my father’s finger, and my mother smiling wide as I coo. I equate my baptism with The Lion King; I am young Simba as the pastor lifts me above the congregation with outstretched arms. All the wild animals of Africa, or literally, the white-haired ladies and their liver-spotted husbands, roar in appreciation.

I was raised on red kool-aid that represented the Red Sea, Jesus’ blood, and Hebrew sacrifice. I was also raised on color-by-number Adam and Eve, which, depending on the publisher, sometimes depicted them with an apple tree and sometimes did not. Naturally, the former was favored, due to the magic marker color variety an apple tree brought. We frequented the “Jesus is your shepherd, and you are his sheep” lesson. Maybe it’s because kids are simple and cute and sheep are simple and cute and gluing cotton balls to construction paper is, in theory, simple and cute, but I now regard the texture of cotton balls with utter putrescence.

As for the years of puberty and the immense tension it created, church was my vice. As for the correlation between corndogs, mini-scooters, and Jesus, it’s still a mystery. Nonetheless, church was there. Church’s voice wasn’t cracking, and church wasn’t finding out cooties is a fake disease that boys don’t have. It was a sense of stability that pretending I was watching Disney instead of MTV when mom walked by didn’t provide.

It’s been sixteen years; sixteen years of becoming the Bible-memory prodigy, of Sunday school and Vacation Bible School, and of tithing ten percent of my measly allowance. I know when the petit blonde woman will choose to embellish the worship song and when she’ll refrain. I know when the sermon really gets to people, not by the copious amounts of amen’s from the ladies to my right, but when the chairs squeak as people get nervous. I know each pastor’s quirks and ticks and speech patterns. Mostly, I know that the vaguely acquainted women will pinch my face and tell me I’m pretty until the day they die. This truth, being that these people have some sort of unbeknownst love, leaves no room for my adolescent cynicism, and for that, I will be an eternal paradox of gratefulness and confusion.

Damn, Platonic

Hypothetically speaking,
You'd be wearing red leather
Tacky like "Hell no"
And we'd verbally piss on society
Off buildings we scaled with bare hands

You'd still be less like James Dean
And more like a coffee-drinking, satirical-thinking adolescent
But I'd let you talk suave to me
Like you've never done before

I'd be the fire-mouthed babe
That quick-wit, back-sass, bad-ass babe
With hair like "Hell yeah"
Stone to emotional susceptibility
But I'd still be prone to ravish giggles
At your quirky odds and ends

The streets would reek with secret envy
While we defied pop culture
And kissed their measly cheeks