Hipster Diary -- Archive 12

So it had been over twenty years since Mrs. Hipster last saw The Police in concert. This was back when she carried a framed 4x6 photo of Sting with her from class to class, setting it up on her desk and dreaming of the day when he would ride up on a white horse and sweep her away to his castle or hive or wherever the hell it is he lived at the time. Needless to say she didn't end up marrying an amazingly wealthy rock god, but at least I have more of my original hair.

And how did Sting become the music and advertising mogul that he is? Apparently by charging like $90 for crappy seats to his shows. Actually they probably should have titled the tour "Andy Summers, Back in the Black." We honestly didn't get the idea to go see the show until several days after the tickets went on sale, meaning that we got what we got and paid whatever The Police, their management and Ticketmaster wanted to take me for.

It was inevitable that the show would be a disappointment. I mean these guys were the seminal rock band of our early lives, and shaped a life full of music appreciation and rock band idolatry. My "Can't Stand Losing You" 45 played non-stop on my sweet Fisher-Price record player, probably driving my folks to drink. Hearing the song live almost thirty years later was hardly the cathartic, defining moment that I thought it might or could be. And, seriously, what was with all the Andy Summers solos? That man is by far the least talented of the three members, yet they practically gave him a solo in every song--solos that were in no way part of the original tune. It was clear that Sting and Copeland were in one camp and Summers in another. Perhaps they just gave him the droning solos to appease some sense of guilt, or more likely to prove a point. The point being that nobody wanted to hear that crap. Ah, well. At least we weren't the oldest people there by a long shot.

Here's a little snippet of the show taken on my cell phone.

Wow, I haven't done one of these in quite a while. In the interim between whatever erstwhile "star" I last wrote about and today, there have been a bevy of a, b, c and d-listers that I've seen in delis and taverns and walking the street like us normal folk. I've seen everyone from Ivanka Trump to Muhammad Ali, Jennifer Garner to Andrew Dice Clay and the two oldest, and most hunched of the bunch, Clive Davis and that little uRru, Barbara Walters. I'm practically like a one man TMZ wreckin' crew.

So why do I choose now to bring back the long-abandoned celeb sighting post? Because I have finally seen my doppelganger, my ghost, the man who has haunted me throughout my post-grad life: Andrew McCarthy. But, what, how could the goofball with the saggy socks from Weekend at Bernie's bother anyone? I mean he's like the poor man's James Spader, isn't he? Jay Mohr did those buggy-eyed impressions of him on SNL out of love, right? The guy is a floppy-haired genius!

All fine until some random girl in a bar tells you you look exactly like him. And then again a few months later. And a third time a scant year after that. An entire lifetime of thinking I looked like nobody famous brought to a crashing halt by a couple retards hopped up on cheap beer and no-rub lens solution. I mean I got Anthony Michael Hall a lot when I was a kid, but that was just people being mean (I think). But, seriously, why him? Ms. Hipster (who at the time was merely Hipster Girlfriend) was actually present for the second of the three slammings and practically choked on her fishbowl straw. She laughed so fuckin' hard, I almost ended it right there. She had no right! Ugh. To this day I remember those three slights (even though they, all three, told me they thought McCarthy was cute and that it was a compliment) and what it's done to my confidence. Why, you ask, is it such a big deal? Because we literally used to use McCarthy's awesome stoic eye-bugging and lip-pursing as a goof to crack each other up in college and beyond (right up until about the time of dagger number one). We would literally stop whatever was going on and would give that excellent glassy Andrew "I'm not gonna cry" McCarthy stoic look. It brought the F'n house down. Ok, we were a bunch of film geeks who derived pleasure from completely inside baseball jokes that were funny to exactly three people, but that crap was hysterical.

So I'm sitting there in Marseilles waiting (and waiting) for my food, and decide to look around. One of my lunch partners is actually French, and gave a thumbs down on the restaurant's authenticity. I didn't think it looked particularly un-French, and was in the process of trying to redeem my opinion when I looked over my right shoulder--and into the eyes of my past, my future and Zen of a career in hiding. Thinner and most certainly neater than me, he looked to be a man at peace.

Not wanting to get called out as a stalker, or just a complete jerk for ruining his lunch, I only caught very sidelong glances at him, but I certainly didn't see much of myself in him. Googling current images of him also lets me know that I bare little to no resemblance to the man who was sitting ten feet to my right enjoying a steak frite or Madame Tussaud pie or whatever. Perhaps it was just one moment in time where my then twenty-three- year-old self crossed the DNA space time continuum a previous McCarthy incarnation and created the perfect storm of goofiness. After two months it passed and we both moved in our opposite trajectories away from that axis. Now he's just an older version of his former self, and I've moved on to like the 2016 version of that douchebag Marcel Vigneron from Season 2 of Top Chef.

"So, apparently I only have like eight years before it all goes down hill?"

PUERTO VALLARTA, MEXICO

Planning a beach vacation when you're really not a beach person seems like a losing proposition all around. Planning a vacation to a place that only seems like it should be about the beach, but really isn't, is more my speed. And that's why we booked a hotel that was on a mountain side overlooking the ocean (that was actually sans beach), and was within walking distance of all the places where one could acquire cerveza and Ms. Hipster's one or twice daily ration of chips and guacamole.

That said, the hotel you chose in Puerto Vallarta, at least in the case of our lazy asses, was muy importante. And, boy, did we pick one! The place, and especially the room, was awesome. Hacienda San Angel used to belong to Richard Burton and his wife way back when, and the new owner bought the place and fixed it up with painstaking detail, outfitting it with Mexican antiques and really sprucing the place up with statues and furniture and all sorts of little details--including lighting hundreds of candles every night at dusk to give the place that special feel. Our room, The Celestial Suite, had its own patio with a palapa (like a Gilligan's Island thatched thing that shades you from the scorching sun) and this view.

I'm not gonna lie and say the place was cheap--and up about two hundred stairs from town--but the majority of our days were spent by one of two pools wondering if 9:30am was too early for a margarita. This next photo about sums up the daylight hours for us. Ms. Hipster's feet make their Web debut.

When we weren't lounging by the pool, or trying to figure out where to go to drink, we were eating and drinking. Here's our itinerary from the best of my recollection. My mental notes became worse and worse as the week wore on, and the beer, tequila and sun warped my mind. The last night was a total wash. Although I do recall a Mexican cover band that looked like Soundgarden circa 1992 in an empty bar serenading us with a fabulously accent-y version of U2's 'One' and, by special request, a rockin' rendition of Pearl Jam's 'Black.'

Day 1
Dinner: El Arrayán (decent, casual Mexican food)
After-Dinner Drinks: Zoo Bar (cheesier than all get out. their CD collection seemed to run out around 1993--a re-occurring theme throughout the week)

Day 2
Breakfast: Hacienda San Angel (We ate our complimentary continental breakfast underneath our palapa every day.)
Lunch: La Palapa (beach restaurant with overpriced menu, but strong drinks and friendly service.)
Dinner: Las Palomas (this was a desperation move. it was weirdly sad, but the food was okay.)

Day 3
Lunch: Esquina de las Caprichos (tiny--like four tables--tapas joint right down the street from our hacienda. tasty.)
Drinks: La Bodeguita del Medio (went to grab a few beers after melting in the sun. cool Cuban joint where you can write on the walls.)
Dinner: Si Señor (awful name. but super-friendly and tourist conscience. they love the business, and are very proud of the place. the food was decent, too.)

Day 4
Lunch: La Chata (upstairs, open space right along the ocean. had mole for like the fifth time, and it was surprisingly decent for a place that held little hope for me.)
Dinner: Los Xítomates (bizarro mix of food. had like duck confit tacos with soy sauce and a fish special. very good. met a mariachi guy who claimed to a be a sephardic jew and bought one of his cds that turned to be very pricey. it's still sitting in my drawer waiting to be played.)

Day 5
Lunch: Las Caletas (used to be John Huston's home. took a boat and the person sitting next to us got stung by a jelly fish. it was a buffet lunch that was fair, and the beer was awful.)
Dinner: The Red Cabbage Cafe (middle of nowhere cafe is obsessed with Frida Kahlo. had peanut soup, which was interesting. meal was just okay, but Ms. Hipster looooved hers. was empty and a little strange, honestly.)

Day 6
Lunch: At our hacienda
Dinner: Daiquiri Dick's (the name is misleading; it's actually a nice place. didn't need two super-tanker sized margaritas plus a "little one." the food was very decent, and it's right on the ocean.
After-Dinner Drinks: Not Sure (some guy bugged us every night to come in this place, and on our last we relented. the cover band--mentioned above--was decent, and the beers were cold and cheap. looking online, there is no evidence that this joint even exists.)

As seems to be our m.o., we went to Mexico during the low season. I have a feeling it's a decidedly different place when there are actually people around. The fact that the guy outside the bar we went to on our last night recognized us as the couple that walked by every night, and that The Zoo was anything but, is testament to the two faces of a party town. While the solitude was nice in Zihuatanejo when we went there, it was kind of weird sitting in empty bars in Puerto Vallarta that you know at other times are packed with young girls with back tattoos and muffin-tops and have those chicks blowing whistles and shakin your head violently after shooting tequila in there with a caulking gun. They didn't even bother turning on the air conditioners in the smaller stores, as it would have eaten into their non-existent off season profits. It would have been nice to have heard at least one "woo-hoo" while we were there. If for nothing else than to try to relive my old Spring break glory (or lack there of).