Tag: hipsters

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Rocky Mountain High In Colorado Springs


Heading to the Market! Photo by Ken Kesey

This past Saturday, while visiting my wife’s lovely Daughter, husband, and her young family in Colorado Springs, we visited the Old Town Colorado Farmers Market in the original 1800s village of Colorado Springs. It is the happening place to be if you are an aficionado or an original member of the 1960s. My wife and I are both, so we were looking forward to taking a time machine back to the days of innocence and peace.

A beautiful day; the weather was in the low 70s, sunny and bright, and the scents of fresh organic produce, fragrant honey, extravagant lemonade, and Rocky Mountain High pot floated through the park. Sunshine was on our shoulders and flowers in our hair. I thought I spied John Denver strumming his Martin guitar, but then, remembered he has been dead for a while now, thanks to not checking his fuel gauge on his plane.

Young families with passels of little kids, every breed of dog imaginable, and I believe that every old hippie that came to Colorado Springs in the 60s never left. Grandmas with dreadlocks, granny dresses, and boobs hanging south to their knees were escorted by their husbands that resembled Rip Van Winkle more than a modern-era man. I thought we were at a “reproduction” of Woodstock. One cool guy may be the twin of the late Joe Cocker, down to the cowboy boots and the tye-dye tee shirt, while another was a ringer for Arlo Guthrie. It was a fantastic trip; my wife and I were stone-cold sober, so that made it even more surreal.

Tents with vendors selling “Colorado Eco Hip Friendly Bee Honey,” “Homemade and Cosmic Blessed Hemp Jelly,” “Granny Sunshines Fresh Baked Love Buns,” ” Hip Harry’s Secret Tomatoes,” and so on. A few booths were original and had quite a queue: “Madam Gina’s Personal Physcriatic Help-$20 for ten minutes.” Another was “Personal Weed Advice.” With all the different varieties, one could, if not careful, might choose a lousy bag and wake up in hell.

The only thing that did worry me was the number of young folks wearing backpacks. Men and women seemed to be carrying all their belongings in a variety of fashionable packs; maybe in case, they were called on a long-distance personal quest at the last minute.

What did those bags include? I am guessing they would be some “smart water,” “an Apple Laptop and iPhone ( required of the hipsters),” some high-quality weed, an extra pair of Doc Martin sandals, maybe a few organic pieces of fruit, and a flash drive containing the soundtrack from Woodstock or Dave Mathews. Of course, I could be wrong.

After the market, we went to the exquisite “Broadmoor Hotel.” This place has gardens equal to those of biblical Eden. Beautiful trees, flowers, and bushes that would never be found in Texas, and enough grounds staff to ensure it all stayed in perfect cosmic alignment.

Beautiful people strolling the sacred grounds with their Gucci sweaters tied around their shoulders and their Tacova boots shined to perfection. The reflection from their Rolex watches would have blinded me if not for my $10.00 pair of gas station sunglasses. This is how the other half of the country lives at a grand a night for a bed and bathroom. If I had a tin cup and a sign, I would have begged for enough money to pay for the trip.

The lobby reminded me of Fort Worth’s Amon Carter Museum. Fredrick Remmington’s famous oil paintings hung on every wall. There were easily ten million bucks in original western art in that lobby. I was in a trance.

It was a great trip to see the family, with good food, and perfect weather. We look forward to going back and having to wear a jacket.

It will be 104 degrees in Granbury today. I think God has a sense of humor and may have chosen Texas for his new “weather Hell” because of all the Californians moving here. Nothing looks funnier than a toasted Wokie.

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Hip To Be Square


I wrote this story a few years ago and decided to bring it back for a re-visit. Given today’s headlines with the hipster crowd in Seattle and Portland grabbing our attention. I think it is a good recount of how ridiculous we can be about our coffee.

My wife and I visited the new and improved Fort Worth landmark, Sundance Square, a while back. Beautiful place, well planned and functional architecture. Good job, Bass boys.
After a few loops, we got a hankering for a cup of coffee and maybe a pastry.
We found a coffee house cafe with little sidewalk tables. Not our style, so we went inside.


Passing through the door, I caught the name on the storefront window, “The Door to Perception.” The famous beat author Aldous Huxley wrote that book. He and Jack Kerouac birthed the beat generation via literature. This might be a cool place.


We queued in line at the counter. The young man in front of me smelled of Petiole oil. An odd scent for a man. Didn’t mix well with my Old Spice. Hippie chick perfume is what we called it back in the day. My wife nudges me and whispers, “what kind of place is this? These kids all look alike.”


Her observation was spot on. Every male in the room had a similar symmetrical haircut, facial hair, garage-sale chic mismatched clothing, and skin-tight jeans. Birkenstock sandals seemed to be the shoe of choice. The girls were ditto but without facial hair. Stepford children they were. I knew immediately that we had stumbled into a Hipster coffee house. I told my wife to please be calm. This is no more dangerous than wading into a gob of old hippies at a Steppenwolf reunion concert. She wasn’t amused.


The Petiole boy in front of me was ordering his coffee. I caught the conversation between him and the barista.


“I’ll have a Trenta in a recycled rain forest cup, free-range, green label, fair trade grown, Andean, but not from the higher region but the lower valley, harvested by virgins no older than 16, aged in a cave on the coast to a bold bean, roasted on a log fire made from non-endangered rain forest trees, lightly pressed, and kissed with a serious pour of steamed spotted Syrian goats milk, then ever so slowly, pour two Cuban sugars at the same time on opposite sides of the cup. Oh yeah, and Kale sprinklers. Don’t stir it, I need to experience the aura.”

“Ahhhh… that’s my favorite. An educated choice, sir,” cooed the barista.
We are stunned. What in the hell did that kid just say?

I stepped up to the counter.

“Two coffees with two creams and sugars each, please,” I say.
“And what region will your coffee be from, sir,” says the young barista.
“How about from Columbia, you know Juan Valdez and his little burro,” asked I. “Don’t know that one, sir, don’t know a Mr. Juan Valdez,” she replied.
“Got something from Mrs. Olsen or Mrs. Folgers ?” I asked.
“No, sir, don’t know them either,” she said.
“Got anything that comes in a vacuum-packed can?” I ask.
“No, sir, our beans come in hand-sewn burlap bags from India,” she replies.
“Do you have any coffee grown in the United States?” asked I.
She perks up and replies, “Yes sir, grown in California, Big Sur area by the Wavy Gravy Mystical Coffee Co-op. I hear it’s harvested every third quarter when Jupiter aligns with Mars, and the moon is in the seventh house. You know, sir, this is the age of Aquarius.”
“Yes, I know the song,” I say.”Is there a song, sir?” she replies.

At this point, my head was about to explode, and I needed to wrap it in duct tape to contain the splatter. My wife saved me by stepping up to the counter and addressing the barista.


“Look, Moonbeam, just give us two cups of that Gravy Wavey coffee, and you pick out the sugar and cream, deal?”
“Names, not Moonbeam mam, its Hillary,” says the barista.
“Of course, it is, sweetheart; I should have guessed that. I suppose you have a brother named Bill too? “No, mam, just a little sister, Chelsea.”
My wife shot me her “get me out of here before someone dies” look.
The barista sensed where this was heading and promptly pushed the coffee across the counter. I paid, and we left.
We stood on the sidewalk, took a sip of the gruel, and poured it into the gutter.


On the way home, we went through the Mcdonald’s drive-through for a red, white, and blue cup of coffee. Can’t go wrong with good old Mickey D’s. None of that Hipster crap.


“I’ll have two coffees with cream and sugar; please,” I said to the voice.
“Sir, will that be a Latte, a breakfast blend, a dinner blend, a dessert blend, an anniversary blend, or an I love you blend, a save the children blend in a reusable cup or an expresso, chilled or topped with sprinkles” the voice replies.
I pulled out of line, and we headed home to our old and extremely un-hip, Mr. Coffee.

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Hipster Dogs Are Among Us


By: Phil Strawn

Pictured for your educational pleasure is a sweet little dog with a strange name. “Graphon Chardonnay” is what’s known in 2020 as a “Hipster Companion Service Dog.” I’m sure little Graphon would rather be out pissing on trees and digging holes in flower beds than wearing a beard and leather jacket. Dogs look odd in human clothing, and they look alien when they sport the same beard as their owner.

While strolling the “hot new neighborhood” on West 7th street a few weeks ago, my wife and I stopped at a small outdoor café for lunch. It was one of those sunny February days where it wants to be pleasant, but you still need a coat if you dine outside. A teaser day, we Texans call it.

A nice-looking couple sat down next to us with their small dog. They were dressed in expensive “Fort Worth Hip” to the tee. The young man had a formidable beard, a ” Stallone” pork pie hat, Ray-Ban sunglasses, and skinny jeans. The woman was dressed similarly but without facial hair. These aren’t your poor retro-hippies, these Kats have a dough, good jobs in IT, and live in an expensive high-rise overlooking the Trinity River. They most likely drive a Tesla or a hybrid Beemer.

The two diners immediately immersed themselves in their Apple I iPhones. Hipsters are required to use Apple products only: Sorry Samsung and HTC.

I felt sorry for the little pooch, he didn’t have a phone of his own or even a bowl of water, so I asked a kind waitstaff to bring the wee fellow a dog bowl of H2O. When his bowl of water arrived, the man gasped and removed the water dish before the parched dog could catch a drink.

” Graphon does not drink regular water” he shrieked. ” He’s chlorine intolerant.”

Of course, I apologized for not knowing the dog was allergic to water, so I asked his father, what does Graphon drink?

The young woman looked up from her I IPhone and smugly replied “Graphon Chardonnay drinks only Starbucks decaffeinated coffee, “Chateau La Pew” white wine and natural spring water from Tibet. He is also vegan and has an IQ of 165.” Well, holy hot shit, I am impressed that this furball with two names is smarter than most of us humans; myself included.

I had already figured out these two were vegans, so when our juicy hamburgers arrived, we made a big deal of our meal, loudly commenting on every greasy bite we took. The two gave us the ” hope you die” look.

In my meat-eating frenzy, I accidentally knocked a French fry off my plate. The little genius, Graphon, caught it before it hit the ground and gobbled it down. His father screamed, grabbed the dog, and began the “Heimlich maneuver ” until the dog coughed up the slimy fry.

” That fry is cooked in animal fats, are you trying to murder my dog! Graphon could die if he ingests anything other than his special veggies” he shouted. The woman was crying and having a small breakdown after witnessing her vegan dog eating the evil French fry.

The young couple was so traumatized, they took little Graphon Chardonnay and departed the patio. I got the last laugh. I slipped the pooch a nice bite of my burger while they weren’t looking. I’m pretty sure he is going to have some righteous gas.

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