Dear Hipsters.

I've longed to have this expressed.  I know it sounds crazy that I could be passionate about a style or movement or whatever hipsters are.  But I love them.  I love them.  I want to be them.  I seriously do.  But only the ones that, as Amy put it, don't think they are better than me for being a hipster.  Only the ones that are just so true to all things beautiful and colorful and artistic and absolutely ravishing.  That's the only word for you sweet/real/beauty-loving hipsters: ravishing.  And I don't give many things the title of ravishing.  But hipsters= deserve it.

I remember watching "my girl" years ago on Thanksgiving Day. (never to forget the loner seat that Jody sat in when we went).  I loved Vada's style.  It was artistic.  I told my mom I wanted clothes like hers.

And then there was and forever will be Punky Brewster.  She (or her character anyhow) was so entertainingly mismatched.  The piecework colored clothes and skawampous (no clue how to spell the word) pigtails were my favorite.  I thought I was Punky, with the truth be told.

But the hipsters got it all.  It combines the perfect mix of the vintage and retro and funky and classy and nerdy and hot and colorful and dull and does the mismatch better than Punky herself.  It's like this deliberate and well executed blend of colors and shapes and styles.

And I love it.

I told my friend the other day I am the type of person who appreciates order in a very vivid way.  I gave her the example of how on Cougar lane every time I drive along there is this manhole cover that makes me want to pull over and park and just rotate it about 64 degrees.  It falls on a middle yellow line of the road, and was apparently painted before it's most recent opening.  And whoever put it back was more of the SB make and I'm sure didn't think twice about the fact that order-appreciating individuals would drive by on a daily basis wondering why on earth it was too difficult to just take 7 extra seconds to align it so the yellow stripe would be one continuous line down the road.

SB says it's because I'm "tight."  He, as a self proclaim artist (which I proclaim of him as well, but there are no boards to take to gain a 'sculpt-out-of-your-garage' license), always explains to me that artists come on a spectrum: from extremely tight to extremely loose.  He falls just short of Picasso on the loose side of things.  We've decided the new slogan for Farmboy Enterprises should be "comes with a wonk."

And though I'm not Matt, I love Matt.  And even appreciate his style.  I just wish his wonk was more intentional sometimes.  I think that's why I love the hipsters so much.  It is organized wonk.  This planned looseness.  No where near the tightness of someone who is completely boring, but shy of the Punky B looseness that gives them a perfect amount of order in their colorful chaos.

Wherever they fall on the spectrum, they fall perfectly.  Which much like SBs self proclaimed title of artist, I therefore have to think I am a hipster at heart.  It resonates with me.

So when I'm hip again, you can bet it will come in the form of the hipster.

And I don't care if my local friends feel like I am jumping on board a bit late.  I spotted it a decade ago in Scandinavia and loved it as much then as I do now.  And my locals that may think I'm slow on the uptake didn't seem to mind it took years to travel here from over yonder.

Long live the hipster.  I love you.