"Let's just jump the fucking fence," the tiny hipster girl says as the group of three stroll by me. The fence she's talking about is the back exit, which is still locked even though I'm supposed to be guarding it as Beer Bouncer.
I'm surprised that they even go to the baseball games; don't they normally just lounge around pretending not to have money and not to care about anything else? And it's not because it's Thirsty Thursday, because they're way too young to even pass off as anything but 14.
I'm not going to pretend to know what a hipster's into, because when I was a kid - which is beginning to feel like a long time ago - a hipster was an old man who pretended he was still hip and young. Now, after looking up the definition, it's a rich kid who likes to dress poor and all his/her money comes from mommy and daddy. Man, how things change.
And they're not the only ones who attend, there are others who pass me by in the parking lot, pretending not to have the two-dollar toll, yet drive around in a fancy Jag or some other imported car that they probably got the same day as they did their license. It's not taken care of, however, to give it that "authentic" look of being riches to rags.
But their clothes give them away. They're boots and Converse might be from ropa usada (a Valley term for used clothes stores), but their garments are from American Apparel. They reek of fashion faux pas (I'm one to speak), but pretend they're also individualistic - oh the irony! Sometimes, I feel like I should overcharge them when the come into the parking lot - them with their fancy automobiles with that layer of grim. I won't, but I do think about it.
I'm not going to pretend to know what a hipster's into, because when I was a kid - which is beginning to feel like a long time ago - a hipster was an old man who pretended he was still hip and young. Now, after looking up the definition, it's a rich kid who likes to dress poor and all his/her money comes from mommy and daddy. Man, how things change.
And they're not the only ones who attend, there are others who pass me by in the parking lot, pretending not to have the two-dollar toll, yet drive around in a fancy Jag or some other imported car that they probably got the same day as they did their license. It's not taken care of, however, to give it that "authentic" look of being riches to rags.
But their clothes give them away. They're boots and Converse might be from ropa usada (a Valley term for used clothes stores), but their garments are from American Apparel. They reek of fashion faux pas (I'm one to speak), but pretend they're also individualistic - oh the irony! Sometimes, I feel like I should overcharge them when the come into the parking lot - them with their fancy automobiles with that layer of grim. I won't, but I do think about it.
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