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July 30, 2004 #
 "OK You Homos, Out Of The Car" Some might know him as "Sac" which is short for Sacramento is the new New York -- a phrase so rife with homosexuality that I can barely sit down after reading it -- but I know his real name: Fraud. I'm not talking about that other guy commonly mistaken for deception and heaped with undeserved praise. Make no mistake, Sac is the real fake. There are many examples but let's start here for a reference point. So it begins... Sac, more than anyone, knows about the complete dilution of a term like "hipster." Hell, he's one of the main contributers to its fall. (We owe him a round of thanks for that, of course.) It lost meaning for most of us in early '99 at a Jets To Brazil show when Blake Schwarzenbach wore a short sleeve button-down shirt (oddly unbuttoned) sans undergarment to reveal a bare frame and finally remarked to the audience mid-set, "what the fuck am I wearing?" Exactly. Those who knew better took the cue and moved on (some making it as far as Nova Scotia) but "hipster" rode the white horse all around downtown and Williamsburg in a pattern connected mainly by coke dens through the early '00s and eventually all traces of the "original hipster" died at the free White Stripes show at Union Square in the summer of 2002. You see, Sac bemoans his befuddled state but he's the biggest "hipster" of all, the fading sad kind which is the worst. He falls after grace at every meal with the wife, kids, and cool vinyl collection. He holds onto such treasures and the past like a drunk man (take me for example) uncomfortably clutches his prey at 2am. He might even go for a jog wearing a faded Samiam t-shirt, pit stains and all. Teenage girls rightly throw oranges at him. He teaches his kids to drum "the right way" like Aaron Eliot and Dave Mello; he has sex with his wife while X's "More Fun in the New World" plays in the background. Hey, it's an election year after all. Now he's come full circle (yes, to the delight of Mrs Sac!) by latching onto a virtual NY scene comprised of pathetic transplants, half-gays, ex-pats who are all as uncool as a cucumber after a DP scene. Far from finding anything redeeming here, he begrudgingly accepts the fake sincerity and crude sketches to draw and make the work day pass with a little less pain. Not even headphones can help with the white noise and whiter co-workers. Fools worship him like a sacred cow turd. When people finally awake from their monochromed dreams they will see this man, Sam McPheeters, in front of them and bow before their New God. Archives "The Other Page" powered by Removable Hype. RSS. Copyright © 2003 La Otra Página, Inc. All nights observed. Feel free to email "info(at)krucoff.com" for questions, comments, stock tips, and family gossip. |
