CUECA FEVER!

I am jonesing for a bit of this action:

And Sting agrees with me!

Serial Friendships: The Solitude of Being an Ex-Pat

When Steven Colbert joked about being Jimmy Fallon's BFFSM - Best Friend For Six Months - I thought it was funny for about three seconds. Then I realized that this is my life.

My writer friend Brittaney came back to Santiago this week for a quick winter-break bum on the couch. Except for the people who continued on in Santiago, I haven't kept in touch with any of my fellow CIEE-ers since they departed back into the wide wide world. Brit and I were talking about her new life in Lima, where she has created a whole bunch of new BFFSM - and perhaps a few WEFSM.

But it was the completely bizarre story she told me about the bunch of Peruvians who pathologically make friendships with the people who pass through her apartment building that got me thinking about how flimsy friendships abroad can really be. Cue background: Brit found out via Facebook that a party was being thrown at her apartment building by thirty Peruvian strangers. Turns out they've been partying with her company's interns (who change every four months) for over a decade. If this wasn't freaky enough, when Brit couldn't find the chip bowl (logical seeing as she'd only spent a week in her new crib) there were a handful of people she had never seen before who new exactly where it was.

So, what do we base friendship on? How long does it take to make a really good "friend"? Do we really need strong friendships in our life to survive and be healthy, sane individuals? And how do all these factors translate into an experience abroad?

In her article "Expat Friendships: Do They Survive When You Return Home?" Mary Richardson writes about friendships abroad as being symbiotic - they thrive on an "interdependence...[her] friends abroad take on a different role [than friends at home] and dramatically impact [her] adaptability." Mary states that making expat friendships while in Okanawa were the only way she could adapt - change to incorporate a new life. However, I find it strange that in the article, it is her Japanese friend who really helps her learn and understand Japanese custom and behavior, while her expat friend merely is who she goes to when she needs a good dose of American pie (and by American pie, I mean reassurance that she isn't, well, turning Japanese).

I often wonder if maintaining expat friends in Chile is a help or a hinderance to my acceptance of Chile as a potential home. A few weeks ago my (expat) roommate, Jackie, and I invited a coworker, Monica, out to sushi. Monica has lived in Chile for two years now after marrying her Chilean boyfriend of 8 months. She has slowly learned to hate Chile. Like the somewhat stereotypical friendly Americans we are, we decided she just needed a good dose of friendship to get her out of her funk.

You can imagine my surprise when, on the walk to the restaurant, Monica bluntly confessed that she "really didn't see the point in making American friends anymore" because "they all just leave after six months anyway." Monica's sad confidence left me dumb. I saw my life stretching lonely before me in a series of six-month serial friendships, learning just enough about other expats to create an interdependent and somewhat parasitic relationship, where each of us sucked the other into a souless incapability of true cultural immersion. If I allowed myself to think all the time like Monica, I'd probably hate Chile, too.

So, how do I solve the balancing act of reassuring myself that I haven't lost the American in me - the part of me that could "struggle with the language, homesickness, and public transportation" and "vent frustrations and joke about funny aspects of [a foreign] culture" with Mary - while still really losing myself in Chilean life?

Monica's solution - ditching serial friendships - could be one answer. My Chilean friends certainly aren't going to desert me by flying far far away. But, as I believe Monica feels, the deeper I wade into Chile, the more truly confused I feel about who I am. I have found that my cultural identity as an American has been an incredibly difficult thing to alter; my attempts at shredding culture have left me feeling stripped and fearful. Not having friendships with other Americans feels like a betrayal of myself, because I feel that part of being human is finding the essential parts of ourselves mirrored in others. And, stuck in a foreign country, I feel like one of my big identity themes has become that big red, white and blue "A" I metaphorically wear. Being American is my targeted different-ness, and really is the first thing Chileans see in me.

That's the other part of the "ditching serial friendships" dilemma: I'm not the only one who has a say in labeling me. Even if I were to weona'o with the best of them, Chileans would always mark me as an outsider. Short of pulling a Michael Jackson and changing my skin tone, even if I were able to ditch my accent, I'm always going to at least look gringa. So, ditching the American and adopting completely Chilean attitudes is, I'm afraid, out of the question for me.

But it is true that too much time spent with my American friends does make me feel like I'm in a "Chileans vs. Americans" binary that doesn't exist. I don't want to be Chilean, but it's also not my perogative to label myself so American that I can't accept their other-ness. Oh, and, there is a very strong heartbreak one experiences when their American buddies leave.

So you've got to put a little hot dog in your chorillana - be flexible enough to appreciate both Chilean and American friendships, no matter their duration. We need friendships to establish who we are in the face of an unfamiliar and constantly changing social universe; the more strange and unfamiliar our world becomes, any little bit of similarity will do. Friendships come and go as it is - they just come and go a bit faster down here. I guess you also have to essentially trust that the ties you make, if they are strong, will last beyond distance - that you always have some sort of safety cord waiting back home, reminding you of who you are - and that you are made of all the people who pass through your life. I'm sure we can all think of one encounter, however brief, that has changed how we see as well as how others see us.

White Elephant

"Whose fault is it when something fails?" We've been after this case study for an hour. The task: anaylize why the Millenium Dome Project in London was a total disaster. Eyes glossed over ages ago. Mine included.

"In this case, or in general?" pipes The Boss. "Usually it is my fault. Or at least my bosses tell me so." Laughter reanimates the group.

"The Millenium Dome in London was a ... white elephant. Do you know what this is, white elephant?" The Boss explains. "We say it in Chile. It is when a thing that was thought to be great has turned out to be one big failure." He's a history buff, a pleasant guy with deep red cheeks and bright white hair.

"We call it a "folly" in English," I dictate slowly, lingering on the sounds as I scribble the letters onto the whiteboard. "Whose fault was the folly, the white elephant, in London?" I ask.

"The designers," chimes Saleswoman One.

"The event planners," from Saleswoman Two.

"Mine," from The Boss.

"Yours?" My eyebrow arches and I smile. I picture him as a mischevious grandpa. I like the way his cheeks get redder when he tells jokes. "Have there been other follies, white elephants, in Chile?" I probe.

"The Congress building. It is in Valparaiso. It wasn't before." The Boss has changed his tone. He looks like he wants to say something more, but either has decided not to or doesn't know how.

"Why did the building move location?" I want to get him to explain something (I think) I already know. I've been told previously that a lot of the government buildings were moved from the center of Santiago to other neighboring towns, so that if there ever were an attack on the Capitol, it would not wipe out all government branches at once.

What I didn't know, and what I was about to find out, was that was a very small part of the story, and a very polite way to tell it.

September 11th, 2001. Americans know this as the day America paid for all its great white elephants in foreign relations. Two big symbols of capitalism came falling down neat as dominoes. We plummeted with the mistakes we had made up to that morning, and we've plummeted with potential follies since: expensive war and risky dealings have contiributed to costly recession. Tea Party rhetoric has stripped constitutional rights in several states. Fear politics are in session in the States.

"Why did the building move location?" The Boss needs time to formulate a response. "I think it was a political move," he begins, slowly. "He wanted to destroy the symbol of a centralized government. Moving Congress was his way of doing so. But there was no Congress."

"He?" I ask. I know where this conversation is now going. I am scared to go there.

Scared or not, The Boss does. "Pinochet," he whispers.

September 11th, 1973. Chile is deep into its second year with the world's first peacefully installed Socialist Head of State, Salvador Allende. Economic problems have arisen in the Socialist turnover. Politics become tense with poverty.

"There was no bread," Saleswoman Two whispers. She, like her voice, seems very far away. "I can remember that there was no bread. I was so hungry." I can't tell if she means before or after the coup. She doesn't elaborate.

Salvador Allende makes desperate attempts over the radio to assure the Chilean people that Pinochet's military group will not take power. The last transmission, shortly after 8:00 A.M., contains strong political pleas to the proletariat. Refusing to surrender his government, Allende shoots himself in La Moneda.

"I was in The Army. Very young. I want to see both sides...I can see both sides to what happened," The Boss takes control of the conversation again.

I had hit upon one hell of an elephant in the room. Stupidly, stubbornly, I keep on trampling through fields of questions. "What do you remember? About that day?"

Gemeinshaft, a sociological term and German word meaning "community", would explain my deep-seated desire to make comparisons between Chile and the United States. The shared tragedies of September 11th always stand out most in my mind. I remember the silence that day in school as we watched the news. As we watched people choose to jump to their deaths instead of burn in a building. So terrifying, there was nothing to be said. Islamic fundamentalists had called us out on our mistakes, or what they saw as our mistakes. That day, we couldn't defend ourselves. We couldn't explain how we screwed up bad enough to deserve something so horrifying.

I imagine that silence spreading over Chile thirty years ago - a silence so thick that even today, even in this conference room, our voices haven't risen beyond hushes.

"My friend was shot. His name was David." On the other end of the classroom sits the Financier. He keeps mostly to himself. "It happened during a protest on a bridge. All of us were shocked."

"I was detained," he continues. "For expressing my ideas. It was horrible. Horrible."

"I know a man in the Army, my friend. He had to shoot another man. He received orders." The Boss offers this as an irrefutable excuse to murder. The Financier's lips snarl as he sits quiet in the corner.

I think about what I would have done. And really, the more I think about it, the more I understand how this man shot the other man, and how my student could excuse it by pointing out that his friend was just following orders. My brain becomes a question motonoton. Whose fault is it? America? Pinochet? Chileans? Conservatives? Socialists? When did it start? Why didn't it stop? How could you not follow orders? Wasn't a gun at your head, too? At least proverbially? Is it your life or theirs? But, how could you not rise up? How could you not stop the violence? How could you not?

Very suddenly, I am turned upon. "This was America's fault. You committed a great folly providing aid to Pinochet," The Boss deadpans. "America's problem is that it always needs to interfere.

"America holds a very high double standard with human rights," jackals the Financier. "And no one ever suffers. Your wealth protects you."

"Even now, what is Obama doing for us?" The Saleswomen's eyes gleam. They circle in on me. "What does America ever do for South America except start wars?"

The community and connection I want - the trust I thought my students had given me in agreeing to discuss such a sensitive issue - turns out to be completely false. They don't want to try and figure things out with me. They don't want a conversation about change and hope. They want blood.

I have lots I can say in response - I wasn't even born yet when the military coup took place; I don't vote; it's not "Americans" who are at fault, but rather our government, and as much as we are a democratic nation, we don't really get a say. But all I feel like saying is "sorry." So I do. I apologize. I take on the folly.

And that's all they want, it seems, is admittance and a person to blame. Something that will exhonerate them. Something they can look at and say, "I didn't do this. It was you."

I look at The Boss, at the Saleswomen, at the Financier. Eyes have glossed over. Mine included.

The Boss, red cheeked, drops a tear.

Lollapaloser

Noon on Saturday finds me being patted down by a woman in uniform. I've got my carnet upside down in my mouth. My right wrist is cuffed by a particuarly uncomfortable plastic band.

Was I finally deported, you might ask? Particularly strange swinger's club reunion?

Nah, nothing so exciting. I'm standing to the entrance of Lollapalooza 2011, the first international Lollapalooza since its inicio in Chicago 20 years ago. The concert is just one of many recent U.S. imports to Chile, a groupie to the smashing success of peanut butter, chart-topping maple syrup, and Rolling Stone cover-worthy visit of Barack Obama.

Since the New York Times named Santiago the #1 destination of the year, Chile has become, like, TOTALLY cool. Chile's daddy made a lot of money in copper mining, you see, and she's become the popular American girls' new "project". With gringa influence, Chile's got a new weave, bitchin' Ugs, and a ticket out of Third Worldom. I also heard that Chile gets high on capitalism behind the gym.

And apparently Chile's got a new taste in music. Lollapalooza - which could have easily been Gringapalooza, seeing as a good third of the concert attenders were foreign - was chock full of U.S. (almost) unknowns like Ben Harper and The National, as well as some good throwbacks (anyone remember Cypress Hill?). Chile's such a poser, I bet she couldn't even sing the chorus to Gold Digger.

Now I ain't sayin' she a gold digger (and neither is Kanye), but the strange cocktail of band choices for this year's event certainly perplexed me as a foreigner; indeed Chile was looking to score some serious luka off the concert. Relatively few bands were Chilean, though the ones that attended were surprisingly fantastic: from the first cymbal crash of Los Bunkers to the solid sounds of Chico Trujillo, Chile certainly did some serious representing.

Concert planners were also smart to invite some seriously terrible 80's artists (Does anyone remember James? Let me give you a hint:)

Yeah, Chile pulled a double-throwback by inviting an 80's band whose one hit wonder appeared in a 90's blockbuster film; and, if Chileans love anything, it is famously bad 80's music. James' performance certainly could go down as being famously bad - the guy was off key for ninety percent of the set - so terribly so that when he announced that the next song was written about the band's desire "to be struck by lightning," I silently prayed it would come true. Sadly, Chile's weather is fantastic, with not a cloud in the sky. The Chileans seemed completely unphased by the band's suck factor, and did happy Snoopy dances all over the concrete patio and up onto the stage.

Concert planners were also wise to Chile's mad desire for Mary Jane, which brings me to throwback number two: Cypress Hill. I have to admit it was "high"ly amusing to watch the Spanish-speakers try to figure out the chorus to "Insane in the Membrane." Additionally, the contact high was so strong I didn't even need to take "Hits From the Bong."

The third smart move was the overwhelming number of rock and screamo music (for more information, see my previous post on Chilean male headbangers). The Deftones seriously rocked, as did their background show (images of a kaleidoscope blended with images of a woman on top). Jane's Addiction culminated Lolapalooza's winning formula of sex, drugs, and rock n' roll with the addition of two women hanging on hooks shoved into their skin fifty feet in the air in front of the rockers.

I didn't stay to watch.

The crowdpleasing bands for the Chileans definitely would be considered "losers" by American music trends, but I wasn't to fear - for us gringos in the audience, Ben Harper and The National saved the day (too bad the Yeah Yeah Yeahs copped out).

I kind of embarassingly admit that I'd never listened to Ben Harper previous to his Saturday performance, even more so now that I realize how f-ing awesome he is. For those of you as clueless as I was, if Leonard Skynard, Aretha Franklin and a snake charmer had a love child, it would be Ben Harper. He offers something for everyone - he adds soul to classic rock, rhythm to blues, and melody to Middle-Eastern music.

Unfortunately, the planners were stupid enough to plan Ben Harper and The National back to back, so as much as I was loving Ben's set, I had to peace out early to get a good spot for The National's kickoff.

Cue one hour and fifteen minutes of heaven. The set list was smash hit after smash hit of indie goodness. Like any good badass hipster indie rocker, Matt Berninger washed his lyrics out with a hearty glass of Chilean wine. "I'd like to thank Hans for the wine and the chocolates," he crooned mid-set in his famously sexy baritone half-whisper. After a particularly hairy arrival to the climax of "Ohio," he joked about late onset puberty. The crowd loved it. Well, as much as a non-English speaking crowd would love someone talking about puberty in English.

So, as much as I'm not overly keen to the kitschy American flavor Chile has so recently become hip to, in this case I think the American overtones in Lollapalooza saved the day to what could have been one disaster of a concert.

I also like having maple syrup again.

Death

My rug died.

There it lay, on the floor: my little one-hundred-percent-alpaca-wool pride and joy brought to an early grave by excessive drinking (wine stains), heavy eating (ground in potato chip and dried up avocado blotches), and general dirty living (dirt and dust brought in from shoes).

I had to admit it. It was far beyond any simple Carpet Cleaner resucitation.

Outside, the neighborhood dog howls.

"I'm going to kill that f-ing dog," Tosh barks. "It's EVERY. NIGHT. ALL. NIGHT. LONG."

"The rug died," I forlornly reply, gently stroking its seams.

"Sometimes, when I walk by the dog during the day, I dream about kicking it," Tosh continues.

"I could have treated it better. I could have covered it when we had parties," I continue.

"I know it's not right to kick a dog. I'm not a dog-kicker. I love dogs," Tosh continues.

I throw the rug into the washing machine in hopes of bringing it back from the grave. When I remove it from the spin cycle, it greets my nostrils with the smell of dirty decaying llama.

"This is why they tell you not to wash wool," I complain, vainly attempting to hang the rug over the curtain bar in the bathroom. Jackie sees me struggling and helps swing it up.

Jackie has just returned from a two-month backpacking trip around South America. Facebook narrates pictures of the Camino de la muerte in Bolivia, where Jackie careened via bicycle down the edge of a very sheer cliff. No one died, although a week before the guide had seen another guide lose control and fly off the ledge. When they were able to reach him, it was too late.

My stinky llama rug falls off the flimsy curtain bar. I drag its corpse back to the clothes drying rack. Still wet, it does not seem that any progress has been made toward its Second Coming.

Still Facebooking, I come across the profile of an old friend from college. It says he is living in Chicago. I am curious if this is true. "I was thinking of the time we had a syrah-induced writing frenzy in my suite," I casually lead in hopes of opening a conversation with this person I haven't spoken to in two years. "It made me think of you. I hope you are continuing to do something similar. Perhaps with a classier wine."

Two minutes later, his response: "There is no wine in my immediate future."

"This is very unfortunate," I concede. I wonder if there are very high rent prices in Chicago.

The dead rug, in all its dead weight, slumps sadly to the floor. I attempt a re-hanging. It does not go well. I smell like a smelly llama. The dog barks.

"Is water-ballooning a dog considered animal cruelty?" I ask. There is, after all, a party store located temptinly close to the apartment.

"What if we leash the dog and take him far away, like, to La Florida?" Tosh says. "Though I wonder if he would find his way back."

"We might have a week of quiet, at least," Jackie contributes.

I look in at the rug. It continues in its deadness. In the kitchen I can see Jackie crying.

"Are you chopping an onion?" I ask her. She is.

"I heard once that if you wear swimming goggles when chopping an onion it helps you to not. I wondered if my snowboarding goggles would do the same," she half-asks, half-states.

It is nice to have them all home with me. It makes bad times feel very far away.

What Do You Do With a B.A. in English?

Of the fifteen of us who originally came down to Santiago, at least 8 of us are extending our stay for some significant period of time. So, what do you do after Duoc?

You work that English degree, baby.

Chile is the first country I've been to where I can proudly say that going for my English degree was the best decision I could have ever made. Me and my TEFL certificate do a little turn on the catwalk down to every university, ESL company, and bilingual secretary position I know. And really, it kind of feels like shooting fish in a barrel, since there's a plethora of options (for an ENGLISH major!?!?!?! Yes, I died and went abroad).

If you want to go the university route, I've heard thus about the following:

Norteamericano: Great pay, great benefits, great company to work for. However super hard to get in contact with, for whatever reason. They do not help with work visas.

Diego Portales: Also pretty nice pay. My friend Tosh works here as a language assistant for business classes in English. He sounds like he likes it but has complained that some of the students are pretty stuck up (which is kind of typical here among the better off part of the population, unfortunately). He's still in the process of hopefully getting a work visa, which consisted of his boss hiring him out to another company to do translation work. I'm actually pretty confused about how he's getting his visa. I just hope he does so he can get paid.

Smaller class-sizes (6 students tops) float your boat? The following companies sound pretty promising:

Bridge Linguatec: This is where I'll be working starting late February! I'm sure you'll hear more about it, so I'll save my space and your time for now.

Executive English Solutions: I have a friend who switched from Bridge to this company, also based out of Providencia. She preferred it to Bridge because there was less beaurcracy (paperwork) and, at least for her, more potential classes. The last time they had a job posting they asked for a personal interview of all candidates, so if you're considering this company I'd reccommend waiting until you get down here to check it out.

Potential red lights:

Tronwell: I'm on the fence about Tronwell. I haven't heard particularly glowing reviews about the company, but nothing potentially damning, either. Worth a shot. They have branches all over Santiago and seem to have high turnover. Also, they help with a work visa. However, the website looks as fancy as an 80's punk rocker, and I'm also kind of miffed that they never responded to my cover letter...or my phone calls.

Wall Street Institute: I hear they are soul-sucking slave drivers who pay you $3.00 an hour. I'm not going to even dignify this company with a snazzy hyperlink.

And, hey, you could always private tutor. Sell yourself on Vivastreet.cl and charge between $10-$20 luka per lesson (these are the average going rates for a private native-speaking tutor).

If you're really too sexy for your blue-collar shirt, you could freelance with Teatime Magazine - featuring interest articles written with non-native readers in mind - or grab an internship with The Santiago Times or I Love Chile, two of three (as far as I know) English-language newsfonts for ex-pats. You could also sell yourself out to a hostel - free room, but shite hours and living conditions for the most part; also very poorly paid.

Now, none of these options provide you a ton of money (a full time schedule might make you between $300.000 - $600.000 CLP a month), but it's enough to get by and enjoy the country on your own dime. If you're looking for something a little more concrete and possibly better paying, sites like trabajando.com might be a good place to start looking.

Happy foreign country job hunting!

You're So....Hipster.

"What's a hipster?" Alvaro asks, sagging hotly on the couch in a newly opened cafe. It has a hand-knit quilt draped carelessly over the back and sides. The crazy colors of the thread make me dizzy. We're playing Jenga and glancing over a human interest article in the paper which has bought up the foreign term. A single from the Decemberists' new album rides the airwaves of a local indie radio station. I'm sipping down an iced carmel latte. I love this place.

Our Chilean generational equivalent has become quite hipster, though many of them don't even know what that word means. It's certainly hard to define. It has something to do with how you dress: skinny jeans, or eighties' leggings; second-

hand t-shirts, or flannel; vintage costume jewelry. It has something to do with attitude: chain-smoking your loose tobacco in hand-rolled cigarettes; drinking your whiskey straight up; being a bit of a maton. A hipster yearns to be intellectual, or at least to spout enough witticisms that he can be considered intelligent by his hipster friends. He carries a tattered book rolled up in his back pocket, and protests on soap boxes on campus greens the evils and perils of the Kindle.

A hipster, like myself, looks up the definition of hipster o

n Urbandictionary.com. She thinks that saying hipsters "go to art house theaters and watch movies made on a 300 dollar budget and drink lots of coffee and smoke cigarettes. then they stare at paintings on walls for a while," is pretty damn funny. Same with "They listen to cool jazz while thinking of Jean Paul Sarte or Belmondo in Godard's film "Breathless."'

In most dictionaries, "hipster" is defined in Spanish as the Castillian "gafapatas." A note in a WordReference forum alludes to hipster's origins in the 1940's: "a typical hipster was a low-class citizen who had grown up in a ghetto or in the slums on the edges of a city. He dressed in a suit which was very elegant but at the same time vulgar" (translation mine).

This low-class link could be why a lot of people look down on the resurgence of Hipsters in America. My hipster friends self-depricate, each trying out-Hipster each other without being called out on being too Hipster.

But, all these partial definitions combined, anything that inspires this much curiosity and this much self-loathing has to have a lot more going on than ill-fitting skinny jeans and future lung cancer.

Erik sent me this article today which speaks of the Hipster like a diseased vestigial organ of rampant consumerism:

" 'What was the hipster?: A sociological investigation', un ensayo publicado por la revista 'n+1' y coordinado por Dayna Tortorici.Entre la sociología y el sarcasmo, la denuncia política y la mueca asqueada, sus autores acusan al 'hipster' de haber vampirizado la contracultura, hijos del postcapitalismo, pasotas, consumistas sin conciencia de serlo, dandis desprovistos del aterciopelado malditismo, adolescentes tardíos que compran ropa en mercadillos de segunda mano y H&M, por lo general blancos, de clase media o clase media alta, desocupados o atrapados en empleos que, rezan, serán temporales, dedicados al videoarte, la escritura de blogs alternativos y blablablá."

Guess I fit the bill. Middle class? Check. Blog writer? Check. White? Double check. Man, what a vapid hole of intellectual consumerism I must be.

But really, I don't think that's true. I'm not super consumerist. I don't write a blog to be trendy. And I think smoking is caveman-level stupid. However, like my vulgar suit-wearing, jazz-listening forties counterparts, I am pretty darn poor. My parents might be middle class, and I might in some ways still be a middle-class product, but I'm also facing potential explosive disaster of the neat little consumerist package I was raised on.

So, I counter the claim that Hipsters are vapid, intellectually hollow twenty-somethings stuck in a perpetual desire to remain adolescents and live off their parents' earnings with the following, much more likely, scenario:

I think the hipster of today comes from the obvious problems of our capitalism in the U.S., and our generation's attempt to transition from capitalism to scary recession. As children of "post-capitalism," as the article deems us, somehow we need to make "chic" our culture's fall at the hands of the greed of our parents' generation. We have no other choice but to accept the growing fear (and more than fear, actually) that the U.S. economy is crumbling, at least in some ways. On a grander scale, unless you're REALLY a money-grubbing caplitalist, you can't be blind to the flashing warning signs that we've used up our environment's resources.

So, I propose that what is currently popular, or "fashionable," in our generation comes from forced changes in lifestyle - we move back to the cities because we can't afford suburban McMansions. We buy stuff second hand because we don't have jobs and we don't have money. And we follow the "green" movement not out of trendiness but out of genuine care for the environment and the resources we've got left. To be a "trendy" hipster is to accept our generation's growing reality - that we can no longer bear the burden of a capitalist culture - and, spun the way the article chooses to spin it, this realization could be depressing.

But what I love about being a hipster is that the territory comes with some pride, or at least style: like an elderly woman who loses her beauty but still has dignity, being hipster is being dignified in our acceptance of pandemic consumerism's forceful aftershocks. Powerfully, we have chosen our fashion to reflect the hard lessons we have to learn from the way we've abused our resources. We've got to live moderately, and we've got to give up a whole lot. The hipster narration is that it's not only cool but couture to face downsizing with a smile - and a cigarette. And I see the fallacy in my argument, since it's true that I haven't yet had to really tighten my belt, and it's true that I still often live in excess. But at least I'm a hipster. I'm happy with whatever moderate amount that I have, and I'll be happy and I'll make good with whatever amount I get.

Right now, that amount involves the last sip of my latte.

Image uploaded from Toothpaste For Dinner comic strip.