My Hood Is So Hip

I mean, our grocery store doesn’t even label their herbs. They just have a refrigerated bevy of little green plastic-wrapped baggies. Can’t tell the difference between fresh cilantro and fresh parsley? Too bad, you fucking troglodyte. Have fun with your ass-flavoured pork loin. 

That’s assuming you can actually find some meat in our decidedly vegan village. You can’t swing a stick without hitting a fresh bundle of bok choy, but getting a decent rib-eye is damn near impossible. Probably because the butcher also owns the barbershop – a busy man indeed. He knows all the cuts.

You could always swing by one of our dimly lit restaurants, the kind with vague single-word names like ButterRabbit, and Wyoming. Just remember, if you can get a table in less than 30 minutes, it ain’t worth waiting for. 

My block is so fresh, even the toddlers wear Blundstones. Our stroller brigade is always out in full force and these kids rock infinity scarves harder than you ever will. Sure, they’re being dressed by their well-to-do parents, but you can’t teach street swagger and these toddlers already have it in spades. 

My hood brings all the fixies to the yard, and damn right, it’s better than yours. 

We’re so hip, our annual street fair is still terrible. It’s become a pretty big production, but it’s still just a roadside food court. No Etsy-endorsed cozie stands to be found here. Sunday fleas are so gentrified. We sling empanadas and water bottles. 

We also have a storefront theatre that does all-day performances. For no one. The perfectly shoddy sign out front is artfully unmaintained and they’ve happily embraced the growing collection of graffiti that’s been tagged on the side of their building. It’s not vandalism; it’s a commentary on vandalism. #ARTS

Did I mention we’re bringing poetry slams back? You other fauxhemians don’t know how to act. If it isn’t spoken word night at the local dive, assume you’ll be hearing a bit of swampy 1940s blues or some other shit you can’t find on iTunes. 

The same goes for our house parties. None of this electronic drug malarkey that all the scenesters are spasming to. Leave your post-trill mixtape in the American Outfitters bag it came in; tonight, we’re listening to the “Sippin’ and Flirtin'” playlist on Songza while we crush clear bottles of organic stock ale. Skip button is off limits, Nancy. Buckle down and drink up. 

Once you’re good and lubed, we’ll wander down to one of the many bars I’m genuinely scared to visit. Don’t you dare order some pretend-cool piss like PBR. Instead, you’ll be having a hearty oatmeal stout that was brewed in a bathtub distillery behind a bodega down the street. We call that local sustainability. Heard of it? We’ve got a whole cask back at home.

A whole cask, bro.

We’re just a bunch of hip-hoppopotamuses who are well into our post-cronut phase. We’ve moved on to more ambitious confectionary creations like bacon wrapped ginger snaps and candied caviar. Snack on that, Mario Batali. Farm-to-table’s for punks. We cut out the middleman and eat straight from the cow’s trough.

We’re so hip, we sort of like those newer, more urban Justin Bieber songs. And dad sandals. We play bike polo and we’re still dealing with poverty. And when it comes to film, we exclusively visit single-screen theaters – mostly during our bi-annual documentary festival – because art imitates life, man, and we’re living in a gallery.

We’re so hip it hurts. No, seriously, our Herschel knapsacks are getting too heavy and it’s straining our backs. 

Please send help. TC mark

image – fla m

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