Episode II: Revenge of the Hipsters

They had it out for me from the beginning of the night.

Last night I made the mistake of returning to the scene of the hispter robe crime. A friend and I went back to Mohawk Bend for dinner and drinks, and while the plaid was out in abundance, there was no sign of the bath robe. I initially thought this was a good thing, but looking back I now realize that the ghost of the hipster robe was definitely following me. The first signs were that the new microbrew I tried fell a little flat, and that at no point did anyone at the bar complement me on my new hipster haircut. In fact, I’m not entirely unconvinced that the ghost of hipster robes past is in the employ of the City of Los Angeles herself. After the rather vulgar things I yelled at LA behind the wheel of my car when I got my parking ticket on Thursday, it wouldn’t surprise me that a hit man was hired somewhere to silence me. Or at the very least, make sure that I didn’t enjoy a single drink the entire evening.

The second part of the evening took us to another hipster bar, and at first I was in love. There was a bunch of dark woodwork, toile wall paper, deer heads mounted on the walls, and they specialize in various whisky/bourbon drinks. This boded very well, but when I decided to order a Manhattan, I think the ghost of hipster robe decided it was time to teach me a lesson. First of all, the bartender was this obnoxious woman who didn’t understand what I was ordering. (I think she couldn’t hear because her fake breasts were making too much noise fighting with her ugly hair and lack of personality for attention.) First she poured me a sidecar, and managed to slop half of it all over the outside of the glass, so that when I picked it up, it slipped out of my hands and all over my cardigan. Don’t get me wrong, I love whiskey, but not as an accessory to what I’m wearing. Though it was convenient for later when I was wringing the alcohol out of my sweater and into my empty glass. An effective, but not a preferred alternative to simply carrying a flask.

As I sipped what was left of the damned Manhattan I actually ordered a poorly poured sidecar out of my sleeve, tits-for-brains bartender started to pour me a double shot of some whiskey on the rocks, to which I promptly informed her still was not the appropriate way to make a Manhattan. She then tried to get in a fight with me about what I had ordered. This girl is clearly going far in life, and her kind, warm spirit makes me think that she spends her weekends dancing on a pole for nickles reading to blind children. When I finally got my Manhattan after all that hassle, it didn’t even taste that great. I can make a better one at home with the added bonus of not having any ignorant sluts to ruin the ambiance. Well, at least no ignorant sluts that weren’t extended an invitation.

Ciao Bella!

Matteo Yazge


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