Armstrong and Miller were not making me laugh. I sat on the bed with Hipster Trish, watching her alternatively giggle and apologize. “This isn’t one of the best episodes,” she’d say, then follow it with, “Oh, that was pretty good.” I like sketch comedy about as much as the next guy, but this sucked. We got to a skit where they played WWII members of the Royal Air Force. They sat in a gloomy room talking about trousers and speaking in Ebonics.
“This sucks!” I couldn’t hold it in anymore. “Seriously, this is about as clever as when they had the old white lady rap in The Wedding Singer. Wow, how funny. They’re in the Royal Air Force but they talk in Ebonics. That’s crazy! How do they come up with this stuff?”
“You’re a TOOL!” Hipster Trish shot back. She was seething. My Armstrong and Miller rant had gotten to her. It was as though I had insulted her mother. Actually, I’m not sure that she would care very much if I actually did go ahead and insult her mother. That could be forgiven.
But comparing Armstrong and Miller to Adam Sandler…totally out of line.
Hipster Trish is cool because she’s convinced that she’s not a hipster. She says she hates them. And yet this is the same person who refused to talk to one of my friends after she, my friend that is, referred to James McAvoy as “the guy from Wanted.”
“I can’t talk to anybody who thinks Wanted is a good movie,” Trish said. During our friendship I’ve been introduced to a lot of cool stuff through Hipster Trish. She’s shown me the show “The Misfits” and a pretty decent French Canadian movie called “Heartbeats.” I now know lots of Canadian bands because of her, too, like the Weakerthans and Wintersleep. This is a benefit of being friends with a hipster. The negative part of it is that I get yelled at a lot.
Trish needs to go to Hipster Anger Management class, I believe. Say something bad about a band she likes and she loses it. The best example of this is when she played me a few songs by a group called MGMT. I thought it was okay. A few weeks later, I couldn’t remember anything specific about the songs she’d played. I vaguely recollected that they were kind of light and poppy.
She exploded. “What the fuck! MGMT sounds nothing like Maroon 5!”
“No,” I said, frightened. “I just meant it’s light and poppy.”
“It’s not poppy! How can you say it’s poppy? Maroon 5? They’re garbage!”
“No they’re not! I can’t believe you compared MGMT to fucking Maroon 5! You’re a moron!”
Her face was red and I could see the smoke coming out of her ears. I tried to change my argument later, saying that only the one song “Electric Feel” reminded me of Maroon 5. It didn’t help any. If she was American, and not Canadian, she would’ve shot me.
Another violent outburst occurred when she played an album by a band called LCD Soundsystem. It got off to a bad start because I didn’t care for the first song.
“I’m not saying it’s bad,” I said. My opinion had to be expressed in a very measured way, as I found out from the Armstrong and Miller debacle. “It’s good. Just…you know…if I had my choice, I don’t know that I’d listen to this. I mean, I like short, hooky little songs…like The Ramones or Elvis Costello.”
The next song – called “Drunk Girls” – started up and I liked it much more. “Now this is better,” I told her, thinking she’d be happy that I liked the band she was playing for me. Then I imitated the bass line from the song.
She got up from the table where we were sitting and stormed away. She spun around towards me and spat out, “You’re a tool!”
“What did I do?” I said, confounded.
“I guess a song can only be good if it’s in 4/4 time,” she said, turning her back to me again. She had nothing else to say. I believe I could see her shaking with hipster rage. I imagined the report the police would have to fill out after she murdered me. Her motive for the crime would be listed as “time signature disagreement.”
As I said before, Hipster Trish is cool. She’s great. Not many people are so passionate about things. Yes, she needs Hipster Anger Management, but that’s part of who she is. Yes, she calls me a tool all the time, but she’s a friend. She likes me. Why wouldn’t she? I got the moves like Jagger.