"I've got...fsssss...steam heat!"

http://www.rankinbass.com/

With the advent of the chilly season, comes a phenomenon felt area-wide: the cranking up of old radiators that generate steam heat throughout the buildings and town homes of our fair city. In my cheery 120 year old apartment, it comes in the form of a cast iron beast decorated with cherubs, the awakening of which brings the din of pops, bangs, clangs, and hisses, brought up from the basement through a series of pipes to the top floor where I live.

I devised a desperate counter-measure one year by asking for (and getting) as a Christmas gift, a lattice-topped stove top steamer that sits atop the radiator, releasing much-needed moisture back into the air. I highly recommend one; not only does it look nicer than a pot filled with water, it slowly evaporates as the radiator heats. You can also add potpourri, cinnamon sticks, vanilla, whatever, to release a scent at the same time. Clever, old school survival skills. I love this dragon steamer that breathes smoke: http://www.gascoals.com/Home/ACCESSORIES/KettlesSteamersTrivets.aspx

During my early college years, dwelling in the scenic hills of Oneonta, dorm life came with massive amounts of over heating, cotton mouth, and sore throats, thus sealing my distaste for dry heated rooms forever. I became accustomed to an open window and lower temperatures, which I was pleased to later confirm created more optimal sleeping conditions: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/04/health/04real.html. It was the start of long, cool, deep sleeps.

http://www.city-data.com/picfilesv/picv32226.php

Naturally, my best friend and I warmly welcomed the gorgeous, snowy views from our dorm room window. To us, it was like living in a magical Christmas land. One night, as we watched the twinkling of stars and house lights on the distant hills, we told each other fables about Santa and the elves who might live there. "Look, there's Santa's workshop!" Clearly, it must be, who else but toy makers would be up this late at night? It was the beginning of one of the happiest time periods in my life, marked with the start of lifelong friendships, a first love, and the romance of cherished college studies. I felt like I had been set free.

With our overall giddiness and shared silly sense of humor, we sang old standards from Rankin-Bass. My bestie clearly had the better recollection of the lyrics. We giggled trying to fill in the blanks to those songs from a childhood that was not far off. We were still teenagers ( I was 17 at the start of our first semester ), living away from home for the first time, and on our own. While other kids struggled, we relished the freedom to live life on our own terms and solely for our benefit, because we had had serious family responsibilities from an early age. Our good spirits showed, because we quickly found a huge group of friends to share fun times with. One of our enduring favorites is the catchy song of the Heat Miser from The Year Without a Santa Claus. Like our stuffy room, it was too much. 

It wasn't until years later I realized how deeply entrenched the character had become in pop culture. I noticed that guido's from the 'hood had adopted it as their signature hair style, like the kids from "Growing up Gotti" (glamorizing cultural cliches and NYC stereotypes...just great). Why? WHY?! WHYYYYY?!!!! 

I see it as a joke the kids have to be in on. It's too ridiculous. Would you be able to have a serious conversation with a boy who looked like this, without bursting into laughter? Me and a friend started referring to the 'do in conversation as "The 'Growing Up Gotti' ", and being Brooklynites, we encountered many. But deep in my heart, I still think of it as The Heat Miser, with fond memories from college days. Welcome to the start of Christmas cheer!

 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christmas_tree

Into the Woods

Birdhouses in Field, © Marie Doucette 2011

Fallow Field, © Marie Doucette

The Furry Tree, © Marie Doucette

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

http://www.nynjtc.org/park/kennedy-dells-county-park

A Walk in the Park

The Listening Tree, Prospect Park © Marie Doucette 2011

Autumn at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden

Tiger Orchid, © Marie Doucette 2011

With the assistance of social media, I've designed a "Wall" that's essentially my version of a newspaper. 

Many of the interests that I follow ( Koko!!, Boo!! ) are gathered in one easy-to-access place, oftentimes with updates, event reminders, and articles for each. It's the best daily I've created, yet!



Naturally, I "Like" my hometown botanical garden very much, given it's proximity to the neighborhoods bordering Prospect Park. When I read an update from *BBG that a rare and giant Tiger Orchid bloomed for the first time in 13 years, I knew a walk through the gardens to visit the conservatory was a must. And what a day it was!  
*http://www.bbg.org/news/tiger_orchid_blooms/
 

Figure in Grove, © Marie Doucette 2011

Here in the Western Hemisphere, as we turn slowly from the sun, the beautiful, golden light of Autumn creates long and elegant shadows out of the fading amber rays. Just gorgeous!

Tree in Silhouette, © Marie Doucette 2011

Dougherty Sculpture, © Marie Doucette 2011

I filled my lungs with crisp, clear air, ripe with the loamy scent of 

fallen leaves. Rustling my feet through the ground beneath the trees, 

I gathered up an armful of russet-colored leaves, and flung them joyfully into the air. The day was a good reminder to enjoy the gifts and blessings that come with each passing season.

Happy Thanksgiving,  from me to you.

Self-Portraits

Ivory Towers

Cover design, Marie Doucette

 http://www.amazon.com/Working-Studs-Terkel/dp/1567319955/ref=sr_1_21?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1321612920&sr=1-21

I've been on both sides of the coin: as a S.U.N.Y. student ( State University of New York at Oneonta ), and enrolled as a transfer at a posh private school. Both were excellent experiences for me, in different ways. Through my subsidized and cheap State school, I got a basic liberal arts education that's better than your average artist. My parents believed quite strongly that a young person, especially a teenager, should be grounded in reading and writing, hallmarks of a solid education, and they were right. ( Dad, this is the spot where you and Mom are thanked. No, I didn't choke typing these words :) 

Besides, I was only 17 when I went off to college. That's far too young to specialize, though I have always known my destiny was to become an artist, even when the where, how, and why of it were totally obscured for me. I had the drive and the hunger, eager to learn whatever I could, that's all I knew. At the time, I was in a S.U.N.Y. program called "3-to-1", in partnership with F.I.T. ( Fashion Institute of Technology ), for a randomly picked major called Advertising Design. I would earn a Bachelor's Degree and an Associate's Degree in 4 years, upon completion of the program requirements. It seemed like a sure thing towards getting a job right away, or so I thought at the time. After a stint working in the periodicals section of the campus library, I started reading trade magazines like Step-by Step Graphics.

I knew I was doing fairly well in my classes, so I started thinking that maybe I could go farther than I originally intended. At the time, my father was starting his business, which made money for school scarce, and my decision to diverge from the original plan harder to make. On a rainy night, I called my father from a pay phone and told him that I thought I could do better than the second S.U.N.Y. school I would be going to. He asked me what the #1 art school in the country was. I said I'd have to go to the library to find out. I did, and I called him back from the same pay phone, "It's the Rhode Island School of Design." He said to me, "OK. You get into that one, and I'll help you out." And so I did. I sent applications and my portfolio to the better technical schools for art and design. I got accepted to every school and program that I applied to.

Me with some classmates and my mentor, at our graduation party.

Once there, I had to fulfill studio classes addressing their basic requirements in art ( credits from the S.U.N.Y art classes were null and void ), before buckling down to a major. R.I.S.D. ( pronounced "ris-dee" for Rhode Island School of Design ) believes a well-rounded artist should be able to speak through the language of whatever medium is available to them. Students must take inter-disciplinary classes during "Wintersession", that typically fallow time between semesters, when it is mandatory to take classes outside of one's major. Since I already had my liberal arts requirements, I could only take studio classes ( 3 hour classes each, with a lot of art assignments for homework ), in order to graduate quicker. It was a harder course load than the other students, and I knew it. But what could I do? The clock was ticking, so I pushed myself as hard as I could. To get an easy "A" and to give myself a bit of a break, I would occasionally take an art history class, because all I had to do was attend, take some notes or a quick test, and write a paper. Ahhhh.

R.I.S.D. believes in building artists for life, not for a specific job or career, and they are right to do it that way. The focus is to create an artist who will pick up any tool placed in front of them and utilize it, while still retaining their voice. Powerful stuff. And pricey at that. In addition to financial help from my family, ( only one scholarship was available in my major, and an older, married student already secured it, even though her husband was well paid as a full-time computer consultant ), I worked a handful of jobs: at a pizza place, as a darkroom monitor, and as a teaching assistant for the Continuing Education students taking Intro to Photography, while painting houses on the side with a housemate during summer session.

Me in '93, learning the trade.

Which brings me to the subject of Ivory Towers. The "Occupy" movement has done what any great protest should. It started with a wide premise that people are now applying to the specific and the individual. I know that the financial system of Capitalism has been designed by a very small percentage of businessman who devise and pass legal rules and regulations to create a complicated labyrinth through which they can make money. It's ridiculous. It would be akin to making Rupert Murdoch take a manually-operated camera, snap professional-quality photos, develop them by hand in a darkroom the old-fashioned way, then layout the book or magazine after writing all the articles, which, by the way, I clearly know how to do, since you, the reader, can bear witness to that. So. Who is more skilled? You know the answer to that.
 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rupert_Murdoch

In my case, the industry I first started working in, after graduation, was publishing, as a production assistant. I'll write more on that later, but suffice to say, I was overjoyed. I love books. Reading is my passion. To be able to fulfill my life's work and vocation through a job gave me a feeling of satisfaction, of the planets aligning, making all that hard work fit into place. This is what I was meant to do. Book publishing, like many erudite industries, is created from intellectual and artistic capital. Oftentimes, that currency comes from the Ivy League schools, those bastions of snobbery that formed themselves architecturally ( in some cases ) into actual towers, like the turrets of the buildings where students take classes. 

Me as a design manager in '94.

The problem remains that middle-class and working class students entering these fields have to try and earn a living next to "trust-fund babies" who were never expected to earn. A blue-blood with a "Lit" ( literature ) degree from an Ivy, in the employ of a gentleman's field like publishing, is all that's required from their family to maintain their respectability and social standing. Clearly this is not the case for me, nor many of the other workers in publishing. While media moguls receive the lion's share of the profits made off of our work capital, we struggle for the basics, like health care insured at reasonable rates, maternity leave, childcare, paid vacations, and a decent salary. 

Until the industry revises itself, and adjusts it's attitude to be reflective of the 21st century, it will continue it's downward spiral towards irrelevance, while something else springs up in the void to take its place. My path in life is to create work that I can share with the world, accessible to anyone who looks for it,  and publishing houses used to be a conduit for artists to do that. We made the work, and they sold the books. It was a great equation. And mutually beneficial. But until the inequities remain unresolved, their greatest asset, We the intellectual capital, will be forced to move on to other industries.

My starting salary as a production assistant 

for a major publisher in 1993 was $17,500.

 

http://www.observer.com/2011/11/occupy-book-publishing-harpercollins-this-means-you/

http://www.observer.com/2011/11/occupy-harpercollins-seeking-support-from-authors/ 

Beauty and the Beholder

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Eye_of_the_Beholder

Many American stereotypes exist regarding beauty. Good-looks supposedly secure the genetically-favored with all manner of societal advantages: better paying jobs conferring high prestige, which guarantee an easier passage through life, shown through countless serious sounding "studies". Huh. I must have been on the unemployment line when these benefits were handed out.

It can be quite the opposite. I've written before about modeling shows on t.v., which basically humiliate, debase, and lampoon tall, skinny, photogenic girls for the audiences amusement. See? Beauty is supposed to hurt! If that's the case, then Cruelty is a definitely bitch goddess, and Envy is her evil little troll of a sidekick. The truly becoming encounter as nasty a bias against them as someone on the opposite end of the scale; such is the case with extremes in nature.

 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Eye_of_the_Beholder

In certain intellectual circles, like academia, the highly attractive can be seen as suspect, gaining access through their looks and not their credentials, thus making an already vicious and competitive atmosphere downright dangerous and hostile. Given current fears about the economy, the basis for such prejudices directed against a comely colleague can gain widespread acceptance and even thrive, by allowing threats to become particularly nasty, especially if a worker perceives another has a huge, unfair advantage over them.

As I channel-surfed one night, I became vividly interested in a program that featured a plastic surgeon who was at a loss at how best to facially reconstruct the features of the burn victims who came to him for help. He couldn't find a definitive source for facial features that were aesthetically pleasing. Magazines were fine to look through, but there was too much artifice from special effects like lighting and digital retouching. He needed actual anatomical guidelines for a pleasing nose, or a well-placed mouth, something more scientific, that he could refer to while in surgery. It's called "The Golden Ratio", mathematical proportions for symmetry, the key factor in attractiveness.

What we have here is a case of genetics, factors outside of our control, occurring in the womb during gestation. Could you imagine a prejudice that was open and apparent (and actively encouraged) against say, skin tones or eye color, height, or hair color? Nonsense, right? Even further stretching the basis for such rank biases, a doctor from another study has never found a perfect "10" in facial symmetry during her research, and doubts that such a face has ever existed in the human race, as outlined in this article from Oprah.com: http://www.oprah.com/oprahshow/Measuring-Facial-Perfection-The-Golden-Ratio

You have read correctly, dear readers. Perfection is not part of the human condition, something I have long known. As an artist, I have done many, many nude studies, portraits, and self-portraits. Like a doctor, after awhile you just see light, shadow, skin, muscle, features. You see the person before you, nothing more, nothing less, and you make art based on those observations. It is these imperfections which make us unique, and therefore humanly beautiful.

 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Eye_of_the_Beholder

The next time you respond favorably to an attractive person, give yourself a break. It is not shallow, rather it is encoded deeply within us to respond thusly. It's the factor that bonded our parents during mating and birthing. So if you come down with a case of the green-eyed devil, remember that beauty can do nothing, but you, the beholder, can adjust your attitude, because a bias by any other name is still the same.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sexual_attraction

Riding the Soul Train

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aretha_Franklin

Nothing tops the silvery pipes of The Queen of Soul, Aretha Franklin (ARETHA!). After yesterday's poor video, I wanted to correct this imbalance by devoting some space to her vast musical gifts, which are blessed, but also extraordinarily human. 

Check out this glorious clip from an appearance on Soul Train, when Aretha and the backup singers do the vocals live to a recorded track. She slips up a bit by starting the wrong chorus, smiles to one of the singers and keeps going, having a blast while doing it. Sheer talent:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soul_Train

For those of you not in the know, Soul Train was THE premier music and dance show for the 70s and 80s, and how dare you for not knowing. I could write an entire article devoted solely to it, but for now, let's just say it boogied in a way that American Bandstand never could for me and my urban-based gang of family and friends. Each show featured the infamous line dance, and everyone got to showcase their groove for the duration of the song:

But let's not forget Aretha (ARETHA!) and how could we? My favorite song of hers is, by far,  "Rock Steady" because it rocks in so many ways. Check out this up-tempo version when she claps out the beat and sings live again. TOP THAT with some American Idol performance. Won't happen, ever:

Ride that Tuesday train to a great day.

Greatest Hits

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Blues_Brothers_(film)

Another record that played in the Doucette household was the soundtrack to The Blues Brothers. When you think about the talent who made appearances, both as cameos and in the recording, it kinda boggles the mind. What happened to the concept of leaving one's ego at the door? Anyway, let's dive right into the classics:

Ray Charles, with one heck of a dance scene. Yeah!

Aretha Franklin & The Blues Brothers - Think by Lipperheide

ARETHA!!! 'Nuff said. 

(Sorry about the ad, folks. The other clips were even worse!)

Have a great Monday with your "somebody".

In Search of...

One of our favorite childhood shows was In Search of..., hosted by actor Leonard Nimoy from the original Star Trek series. If you had an active imagination and a lively curiosity, this show lit up some serious sparks inside you. There was no phenomenon or unexplained event they didn't touch upon, be it historical mystery, pop cultural happening, or monster siting, from different sectors of society.

This was right up our alley. Plus, the shows were really well-researched and produced. And what a voice! Nimoy goodness, totally. This episode delved into tales and accounts of a Canadian lake monster, with roots in Native American lore. Cool! 

No stone was left unturned in their quest. The team took on the big myths and reasoned out possible conclusions. Nimoy the narrator, famed for playing the character "Spock" from Star Trek, portrayed a master logician. No more frightful nights or monsters lurking under the bed. Here was a show that would query your childhood fears, flush them out into the clear light of day, and expose them for the chimeras they so typically are, embedded deep within our collective psyches. The show took a scientific approach, applying a high level of scrutiny upon the bugbears of human culture. My fevered nightmares about vampires were soothed by the balm of inquiry:

Cultural frenzies were also examined. The show explored shark attacks, a subject whipped into a froth by audiences terrified from the movie Jaws. I know people, to this day, who have inhibiting fears about swimming in relatively shark-free waters because of this film. Such is the power of fear-mongering. The slight chance of death (or possible maiming) by a fictional, genetic freak of a shark, heightened by tension-building music, stamped itself onto the minds of those with weaker constitutions, back when the movie was released:

Fascinating, isn't it? They were savvy producers, too, delivering the audience to the Nimoy denouement of Part III. Many of the shows were split into two and three part specials to draw viewers back for the conclusion, with answers and observations about the data collected during filming. The Nimoy summation was a key component to the shows drama, delivered expertly with flawless timing. I wish a show with such a tone existed for today's children. It would help a lot more than a night light.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/In_Search_of… 

Sweet dreams.

Tech Angst

With any technology comes a certain amount of b.s. For heavy computer users like myself, who have to know massive amounts of complicated software to eke out a living, one often finds oneself in the position of I.T. support. When deadlines are looming, and the clock is ticking, it's not a good space to be in. Many of us did not go to school for computer programming, and those artists who did will tell you that at some point you have to choose an industry and devote time to it, like any other finely-honed skill.

So. What did we do back in the day, before online forums existed to blow off steam and get info, when tempers flared? We resurrected irritating characters from children's lore, in order to massacre them. And that was the beauty of the Mac screensaver "Barney Carnage." Now, many of my readers know I love to illustrate and write for children, so don't get me wrong here. It's not the genre I loath, it's this friggin' show, because it's overly simplistic, condescending, pseudo feel-good tripe. And I despise that tone. As did the creator of this particular brand of scathing social commentary, because Barney skittered across the screen, hokily repeating in that dopey voice "Two plus two is four. Two plus two is four. Two plus two is four. Two plus two is four." over and over, invoking hatred and an itchy trigger finger.

http://hujackus.tripod.com/barney-carnage/barney_carnage.html

Enter in the Stick-It-to-The-Man mentality for many Mac users. You see, we did not choose, as a group, to use this operating system. Desktop publishing companies joined with printing presses to profit off the digital age, and voila! If you wanted to work at a low-paying creative job (with the exception of architects and 3D modelers, who are PC-based), you learned to use a Mac. And in my case, on my own, after my day job ended, at night with the aid of books I paid for, on the computers of graphic designer friends, at the house where we worked. Because, of course, I did not learn all I needed to know about being an expert in pre-press software at school. How shocking.

http://hujackus.tripod.com/barney-carnage/barney_carnage.html

And, because our systems are 1) more expensive and 2) harder to use, some companies get the heebie jeebies and screw us on tech support and equipment servicing. We learned enough to do that, too, so we could get back to doing our jobs. Follow me, here? We learned what we had to, in order to get back to doing what we get paid to do. Sucko, isn' it? Luckily, top artists and designers are a smart and adaptable lot, so we made the transition, willingly or not. But let me make know mistake with my message here: if many of us had the choice, we would choose to make the work over servicing a machine, like a mechanic. These are our tools, ya feel me? 

It was in this vein that I looked for (mostly in vain), the old screensaver that was packaged with MacOS 9 systems called "Barney Carnage". A co-worker stabs you in the back intentionally? Stab Barney! An incompetent employee bogging you down? Blow up a Barney with an atom bomb, to create a wonderfully colorful mushroom cloud! The best part? It was in the spirit and humor of a video game.

Look to the weekend, office drones, and know that Friday is here.

You are not alone!

For you geeks out there with a Classic system loaded on a old machine, have at it and enjoy: http://www.macintoshgarden.org/games/barney-carnage

Some history on the subject. Who new the Barney industry was so gangsta? We did! http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anti-Barney_humor

Video Games

For kids of my generation, video games are revolutionary. Children naturally like to play the hours away, so having a game pre-packaged for you to interact with at your command (controlled by your hand), became instantly addicting. It was candy for the electronic age. 

In my family, it was also another way for my oldest brother to re-establish his predominance in the pecking order above his younger siblings. He took pictures of the t.v. screen whenever he got a high score on a game, to secure future bragging rights. According to his wife, old habits die hard. My bro battles it out digitally with other air travellers, heckling the low scorers from aisles away. That's some serious gamer roots. My father is not immune to the bug either, though he jokes that the last time he bested a game was Pong. He's funny :)

How boring does this look to us now?! And yet, back then, motion graphics were a big deal. Now, since me and my bros were nerds, a fact I have laid the groundwork for in previous articles (Monster mag, Super8 animation, Star Trek, Star Wars, comic books, Renaissance Faires, the list goes on and on), we knew that this first generation technology would tighten up real quick, and we wanted in. 

Thus began our campaign for a system of our own. Given my parents rather Luddite and Spartan tendencies, our childish requests often fell upon deaf ears. We get gifts only a few times a year: birthdays, Christmas, and for the kids, at Easter. Children in the family get goodies in the form of a candy basket stuffed with that plastic green grass, laden with jellybeans that have sunk to the bottom, (making it a treasure hunt), plus a stuffed bunny or some other small toys. That's it, homeboys. Those are our values.

When the craze hit, we fought for that years Christmas gift hard. We got one big gift, plus stocking stuffers and clothes. The group family gift, by unanimous vote, had to be a gaming system. Since Dad's interest was piqued, it was a lock and we knew it. Sweet. Atari was the real high end system, but there was no way my parents would green-light the cost of a frivolous t.v game. We wound up with the Sears knock-off version called "Intellivison", probably because my Mom thought it sounded more educational. Yo, check this out:

http://www.trs-80.org/frogger/

It's a trip, right? I'm sure readers can guess why we were so enamored. Because we HAD the dice version of D and D. (Cough) nerds (Cough).  As basic as the graphics seem now, the mystery of not knowing what would happen at any level or what foe would appear was intoxicating. We loved it. Video game arcades sprung up in malls across America, making quarters scarce in every household. Without those precious coins, no tokens could be bought. Arcades were dark dens of inequity with neon lighting, places where "bad" kids hung out, shaking down other kids for change, as alluring as any dragons' lair. Fortunately for me, my tastes did not run to a group setting. I thought (and still do) that Ms. Pacman and Galaxia sucked, with the exception of Frogger. I tend to hone my "skillz" in private.

http://www.everseradio.com/flying-off-the-screen-observations-from-the-golden-age-of-the-american-video-game-arcade/

The big TV networks knew this was a major youth movement. The execs tried to ride the video crest, nervously watching the audience numbers drop in lieu of this huge home entertainment wave. Here in the tri-state, WPIX Channel 11 had this hilarious call-in game for kids to test their mettle against their version of a video game. It was ridiculous, because younger kids had no idea how to match their voice to what remains a hand-to-eye feat, so they just sputtered out repeatedly "pixpixpixpixpix" in cute, wispy kiddie voices while me and my brothers laughed our asses off.

One unfortunate caller must have lost his front teeth, because his words came out sounding like "Piss!" over and over, totally off target. We were hysterical with laughter, caught in a raging fit of the giggles, face down in some pillows or sliding off the beat up couch in the family room. Embarrassingly still, the announcer said at the end, "Oh, I'm sorry, Michael from West Hempstead. You're score is 0. I'm afraid you've won nothing." Then there was the awkward response from a six year old struggling to grasp what just happened, responding in a small, shaky voice, "Oh, ohhhhhkkkayyyy..." or just an abrupt hang up. The prizes were lame anyway, like a gift certificate to a pizza place or something like that.



How great is that?! Brings back lots of good times. More articles on games to follow, my friends, that's for sure.

May all your memories today be fond ones.

Hipster Infestation

Consider today's post a public service announcement. We of New York roots are quite proud that the masses have become aware that Brooklyn Rocks the House (forever and always). With every publicity boon comes some backlash, and for New Yorkers, it comes in the form of Hipsters.

Now, those of us who work in media and creative industries have been hip to the whole "nerd chic" thing for years and years. They of the pale ilk with the chunky black frames used to think that their erudition made them into some sort of a sexy anti-hero. Such is not the case. Let me assure you of this, so I can rob you of that pretense. It IS possible to read, like music, and interact with society at large without forming oneself into a posse, thus mimicking the herd mentality which the truly cool abhor.

After all, a group of lanky kids sporting ironically large plastic-framed glasses (see also: chunky, black, square-framed glasses) with the requisite uniform of skinny jeans and flannel shirts, covered in ironic tattoos, does not a hipster make. You have joined a clique, sorry to say. Here's what an original Hipster looked like, back in the day.

First and foremost, Steve McQueen:

 

Of course, always always always Bruce Lee:

Now that we have firmly established that "Hipster" is a historical term, much like "Hippie" and "Punk Rocker", you may ask yourself: "What do I do when I encounter such a poseur?" And that is a very good question. They are a frightening herd to encounter out there in the wild streets of our dear urban jungle. Illuminators know that we must arm ourselves with trusty guides, maps, and much information. Let's begin our cultural dissection, so we can avoid uncomfortable run-ins.

The best source for such a creature, is to go directly into the belly of the beast, so to speak. In this case that would be the site called "Look at this Fucking Hipster." You who have travelled the L line through Williamsburg and Bushwick will know these images well. Those who have not, familiarize yourself. In other words, mark and remember the signs, because therein lie important clues. Here's one for you: headbands. Think of the following documentation as "tipsters": http://www.latfh.com/.

This handy fellow has even designed a Bingo card to make ferreting them out into sport, and it's an easy one at that, once you get the look down to memory. However, given that this is a public service for my readers, and not for those in the know, I will post it:

http://www.catbirdseat.org/catbirdseat/bingo.html

Thus concludes today's subcultural lesson. I will leave you off with a bunch of links to further educate yourselves in more depth, though given the superficiality of such a group, delving deep is not really necessary. A breeze-through will more than suffice. Arms yourselves, and take comfort knowing they do not usually start shit one on one: that would require bravery or a lapse in their medication. A solo Hipster is not only simple to spot, but given their typical lack of cardio conditioning and muscle mass, even easier to scare off. Shoo! 

If you have the unfortunate experience of happening upon a sulkily sneering group of them in the corner of a bar, making fun of the good music and trading what they think are quippy bon mots while disparaging other artists who aren't part of their bitchy "frenemy" group, just glare back menacingly, or better yet, ignore them and have a genuinely good time.

Here's a handy list of links to resources:

http://www.catbirdseat.org/catbirdseat/bingo.html

http://www.freewilliamsburg.com/look-at-this-fucking-hipster/

http://thephoenix.com/boston/life/121181-look-at-this-fucking-hipster-wedding/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hipster_(contemporary_subculture)

http://hipsterpuppies.tumblr.com/

Let's promote a movement called "Individualism",

because authenticity is always sexy.