We all know ex-pres Bill Clinton is trying to pigeonhole Barack Obama as the "black" candidate. It's an interesting play considering the rampant racism that pervades the majority of the U.S., but is this really the kind of thing we expect from America's first black president? I mean, really, the things he's doing aren't quite that subtle. Here are a couple examples of what Bubba will probably turn to if things don't pick up for Hillary:
Look, I'm not sayin' that my old buddy Bill isn't the smartest president we've ever had (and I miss him dearly), but I have to hope things don't come to this. Granted in the last debate, I thought Hill and Barack might make out right there on the stage, so maybe he'll keep his secret campaign on ice, and his legacy in tact. We'll see.
CELEB SIGHTING 8: STEVE SCHIRRIPA
As if there were something worse than getting wacked in a toy choo-choo train store, now Bobby Bacala has to be ogled in a Starbucks by the likes of me. On an innocent antiquing jaunt to the New Jersey shore town of Red Bank (made "famous" in the film Chasing Amy), the last person I expected to see was someone who lived in his fictional life where I live in my real one. I just find it funny that I had to leave the Sopranos-laden confines of Essex County to have my first encounter with one of the most notorious fake mobsters in all of the Garden State. It is nice to see that "celebs" need their caffeine too.
It was a bit embarrassing that I was carrying a ten-pound bag filled with Mrs. Hipster's soaps from the Restoration Hardware down the street. But I figured if there was one of Tony's gang that would understand the softer side of being a man, it would be my buddy Bobby. The guy himself looks to have dropped a significant amount of weight. Still cutting a pretty imposing figure, he's like half the man (and one-eighth of the chins) he was at his biggest on the series. In fact, he looked kinda nice--like an uncle you'd want to rough up that damn co-op board member who won't let you install that sweet hot tub in your walk-in closet.
THE POLICE @ MSG
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.
CELEB SIGHTING 7: ANDREW MCCARTHY
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
Garner to Andrew
Dice Clay and the two oldest, and most hunched of the bunch, Clive
Davis and that little uRru,
Walters. I'm practically like a one man TMZ
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
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
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.
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
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
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)
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
Palomas (this was a desperation move. it was weirdly sad, but
the food was okay.)
Lunch: Esquina de las Caprichos (tiny--like four tables--tapas joint
right down the street from our hacienda. tasty.)
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,
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.)
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.)
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.)
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.)
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).
More on Mr. Hipster
Hipster Movie Reviews Enjoy the rantings as Mr. Hipster proves he slept through his film criticism courses in college.
Hipster Book Reviews This much ignorance about literature can only lead to hurt feelings and a whole lot of nonsense.
Music Check out the albums that have left Mr. H with permanent hearing loss in his left ear, but a song in his heart