My Hip Aunt Sharon
I would like to share a story with you, oh valued reader. This little ditty comes from the closely guarded vaults of my personal experiences.
It was the Friday last and I was sharing a round of frosty Rolling Rock beers with my Hip Aunt Sharon and some of her old hippie buddies at The Mine Saloon in Nelsonville. A lesser known troubador from TupeIo, Mississippi had just favored us with his musical stylings and raspy southern fried wit. It turns out that Paul Thorne had fought Roberto Duran for six bloody rounds before he came into some degree of prominence amongst the NPR set. Paul tells the story much better than I do, but I digress.
The Mine Saloon looks like just that. A saloon inside of a mine. The walls are black as coal and the lighting dim. I did not have a dollar to my name that particular Friday so I was dependent upon the generosity of my Hip Aunt Sharon. Her generous financial support was responsible for the purchase of the above mentioned Rolling Rock beers. She has listened to NPR long enough to know how to support the arts.
The deep southern drawl of the evening's entertainment hung in the air as thick as the cigarette smoke as card-carrying members of two eerily similar generations of the same counter culture traded war stories. Cries of yesterday's "hey, hey, LBJ - how many babies did you kill today?" bled into whispers of today's "racist, sexist, anti-gay - Bush/Cheney go away!"
Three green bottles later the conversation veered in the direction of this humble weblog. My Hip Aunt Sharon stated that she thouroughly enjoyed the contents of this site - gleaned from a hard copy I shamelessly dropped to her at a family function- with one glaring exception. She did not agree with my use of the word "cunt" in "New Fox Reality Show." I should have learned from a lesson from NPR. Terry Gross never runs questionable material during a fundraising drive. Continued funding for valued programming from the glass-lined tanks of Latrobe was in jeopardy.
I was angry when I wrote that. Sorry Jenna. Sorry Barbara.
The aging hippies at the table remembered being angry too. They said "fuck" when they were angry. Despite the different lexicon of indignation between generations we found there was more in common betweem us than any of us cared to admit. A stance of mutual admiration was tentatively regained.
Any progress that had been made in bridging the generational gap came crumbling down when Sharon's friend had the audacity to ask me why I bothered to maintain a weblog that very few people were going to read anyhow. My first response was to bristle at the question. How dare this aging hippie question my motivation as I blaze the trail towards a paperless future?
Goddamnit. That was a profound question. As I launched into my democratization of the media rant I could tell that she was just sizing me up - checking to see if I was honest. In retrospect I think that I would have asked the same question is some annoying hipster kid was telling me about his blog.
I doubt that woman will ever read these words, however I feel an answer in in order.
It is cheaper than therapy.
It was the Friday last and I was sharing a round of frosty Rolling Rock beers with my Hip Aunt Sharon and some of her old hippie buddies at The Mine Saloon in Nelsonville. A lesser known troubador from TupeIo, Mississippi had just favored us with his musical stylings and raspy southern fried wit. It turns out that Paul Thorne had fought Roberto Duran for six bloody rounds before he came into some degree of prominence amongst the NPR set. Paul tells the story much better than I do, but I digress.
The Mine Saloon looks like just that. A saloon inside of a mine. The walls are black as coal and the lighting dim. I did not have a dollar to my name that particular Friday so I was dependent upon the generosity of my Hip Aunt Sharon. Her generous financial support was responsible for the purchase of the above mentioned Rolling Rock beers. She has listened to NPR long enough to know how to support the arts.
The deep southern drawl of the evening's entertainment hung in the air as thick as the cigarette smoke as card-carrying members of two eerily similar generations of the same counter culture traded war stories. Cries of yesterday's "hey, hey, LBJ - how many babies did you kill today?" bled into whispers of today's "racist, sexist, anti-gay - Bush/Cheney go away!"
Three green bottles later the conversation veered in the direction of this humble weblog. My Hip Aunt Sharon stated that she thouroughly enjoyed the contents of this site - gleaned from a hard copy I shamelessly dropped to her at a family function- with one glaring exception. She did not agree with my use of the word "cunt" in "New Fox Reality Show." I should have learned from a lesson from NPR. Terry Gross never runs questionable material during a fundraising drive. Continued funding for valued programming from the glass-lined tanks of Latrobe was in jeopardy.
I was angry when I wrote that. Sorry Jenna. Sorry Barbara.
The aging hippies at the table remembered being angry too. They said "fuck" when they were angry. Despite the different lexicon of indignation between generations we found there was more in common betweem us than any of us cared to admit. A stance of mutual admiration was tentatively regained.
Any progress that had been made in bridging the generational gap came crumbling down when Sharon's friend had the audacity to ask me why I bothered to maintain a weblog that very few people were going to read anyhow. My first response was to bristle at the question. How dare this aging hippie question my motivation as I blaze the trail towards a paperless future?
Goddamnit. That was a profound question. As I launched into my democratization of the media rant I could tell that she was just sizing me up - checking to see if I was honest. In retrospect I think that I would have asked the same question is some annoying hipster kid was telling me about his blog.
I doubt that woman will ever read these words, however I feel an answer in in order.
It is cheaper than therapy.
posted by Yonder Vittles at 1:58 AM
2 Comments:
Very cool sketch. I like the mood-- comfy, descriptive. Hunter S. Thomson was nicely written too, a good tribute making a good point. Your pessimism kicks my ass though.
I'm holding Jesus' Son hostage. If you want to see him alive again, you'll have to give me a fricking email address that works, because the one I sent you awhile ago came back to me. One has to respect the library.
ahhvagabond@hotmail
Some crazy woman has kidnapped the only son of our lord and savior. This is bigger than the Lindbergh Baby getting flushed down the toilet. Good Christians unite and help me hunt down this deranged terrorist enemy. We must save Jesus' Son.
Post a Comment
<< Home