Somewhere, someone is very proud.Mustached Aubrey didnât speak the whole ride but his sophisticated music pallet forced him to sneer or click his tongue every time a new song came on the radio. I started doing it too until he glared at me for hating the same music as him. His parentsâ house was in a gated neighborhood. As Aubrey loaded milk crates of records into the trunk, I watched migrant workers tend to bushes and flowerbeds in the front yard. I had a great idea. "We should invite them." "Who?" "Those toilers. I bet theyâd be willing to rally behind a cooperative management of their production yields. Letâs bring them to the socialist concert!" The Aubreyâs stared at me. "Eww," said breasted Aubrey. "Yeah, you donât get it dude," mannish Aubrey told me before shutting the trunk. It was true. My understanding of this revolution was shaky. I dedicated myself to listening and learning for the rest of the car ride. I loved the discussions the Aubreyâs had; they experimented with big words in unique and exciting ways, like a baby playing piano. They treated a debate on Trotsky with the same severity as a conversation about vests. The topics collided into one another with no starting or stopping point and no resolution, just vague knowledge on the subjects and extreme but generalized opinions seemed to be enough for them. I desperately wanted us to be friends. The show was not what I expected. There were no speeches, no chants. People just stood around drinking beer. A hammer and sickle flag hung above the stage and two people played distortion into a microphone at different volumes. Mustached Aubrey pouted on his record crate. The first-choice musical group was, unfortunately, healthy and present.
Nothing says youth in revolt like earmuffs.I noticed several people wearing coon-skin hats and my heart swelled: The educated youth announcing themselves as the pioneers of a new America. The crowd swayed in unison to a beat I couldnât hear, tuning themselves to the winds of a revolution. The spring coiled. "That will be 11 dollars pal," the bartender said. I looked at my High-Life and back at him. "Eleven dollars? For this?" "Yessir." It was time. "Fuck your bourgeois system!" I shouted and slammed the bottle down on the edge of the bar. It refused to break and I only managed to spill some beer on my converted jean shorts.
"Did... did you just piss yourself?""Get out of my bar," the Man said. "Itâs not your bar anymore," I said. "Itâs the peopleâs bar now!" I screamed it loud enough for all the hipsters to hear. A silence followed. I filled it with the first few claps of what I hoped would be an ovation for me. Iâm not sure how thunderous it ended up being, I was thrown out before anyone else joined in. Iâll never know how substantial the insurgency was that night, but I take solace in knowing that I lit the fuse. On the bus ride home I caught eyes with a group of guys in skinny jeans and headbands. I put my fist high in the air. "You are the future," I said. They smiled to one another knowingly and took pictures of me with camera phones, presumably to silk screen onto T-shirts some other day.
The future, in the capable hands of a hipster.
Read more from Soren Bowie. You can also watch him get intimate over a bucket list or piss off magicians.
Recommended For Your Pleasure
The main benefit of watching TV is seeing the plight of sad bastards who aren't you.
- By Ian Fortey
- March 10, 2019
The 'wellness' market is thriving right now.
- By Lydia Bugg
- March 08, 2019
Most people have a pretty basic idea of what it's like to be a parent.
- By Seanbaby
- March 15, 2019
There's no shortage of downright absurd conspiracy theories out there.
- By Boone Ashworth
- March 14, 2019
Instead of rebooting and recasting, we have a chance for something new.
- By Archie Grimm
- March 06, 2019