Ooh, look at me! I got Hipstamatic! I'm Ansel fucking Adams!

2011-06-30T20:29:00.000-07:00

Hipster bloggers, FOR THE LOVE OF PABST BLUE RIBBON, STOP PHOTOGRAPHING EVERYTHING IN HIPSTAMATIC. Sweet tap-dancing flannel revival on an organic wheat cracker. Just fucking STOP. If you want to capture a moment, a landscape, a lazy summer's evening spent around a bonfire, the early morning dew on a plumeria, your toddler nose to nose with your dog as a beam of sunlight falls around them, a swan necking another swan on a still lake, by all means, turn on the Hipstamatic.

But if you want to show what you had for dinner or your three year old's snotty nose or your latest painting or your collection of ceramic frogs or the nasty cut you got from shaving your legs or your new fridge or the damage from the fender bender you caused, STEP AWAY FROM THE HIPSTAMATIC.

You see, one situation is for art and one situation is for reporting facts. I don't see Hipstamatic prints making their way onto the front page of the newspaper (15 DEAD, HUNDREDS WOUNDED IN AFTERMATH OF HURRICANE--and all the photos are run through the Lomo filter for that "dreamlike quality" that enhances the rubble and the body bags).

Nothing makes your secret green bean recipe look less appealing than to run it through a vivid green or cyan filter and then wash the whole damned thing with a few lens flares RIGHT OVER THE BEANS. Yep. Gonna run right on down to Publix to get the ingredients.

And, honestly, a crappy photograph done in Hipstamatic is a crappy Hipstamatic photograph. It doesn't improve the composure one bit. Even when you run it through a filter to wash it out so your palm tree LOOKS LIKE A PALM TREE FROM 1886.

It's auto-tune for pictures. If you start with a Ke$ha, you're still going to have a Ke$ha when you finish...it's just going to be louder, slightly more in tune, and less drunk-sounding.

I'm not saying to cut it out completely. I love using Retro Camera+ and other Android apps like that, but I'm not taking the kids' science project experiments pics with them or showcasing my banana bread or taking insurance pics when someone rear ends me with them.

Remember: It's OK to step away from the digital filters now and then.

To wit:

WHY? FOR GOD'S SAKE. WHY? It's badly framed, badly composed, the filter doesn't complement the natural light, it's angled like my grandmother took it, the subject is barely in the shot, the foreground is distracting, and it's basically an ugly shot. Why in God's name would you think running it through a filter would fix it?

See? It sharpens the natural light to enhance the sunny day, yet it gives that hazy, lazy summer feel to the pic. It's composed better and has interesting subjects.
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Also nice. It ENHANCES the pic, not tries to change it. It plays on the blue of a cool day on the shore and frames its subjects nicely.

Don't be pic number one. Just...just don't be pic number one. At least plunk down the cash for a real Diana or a DIY pinhole if you're going to be pic number one.

Rise of the Suburbanites

2011-06-30T11:51:00.000-07:00

Today, in a fit of "Holy fuckbuckets, why is summer break longer than two goddamn weeks" desperation, I hauled the spawn off to the park to run themselves somewhere between "silly" and "begging for mercy." I had the misfortune to park myself in front of a throng of the common 21st century moms, aka Suburbanites. Listening to their inane conversations while disguising myself with a pair of knitting needles and a scarf (I like to pretend it gets cold in Palm Beach, mmkay?) that would make Tom Baker, 5th Doctor extraordinaire, orgasm with delight,

I wanted to slit my wrists out of sympathy for these poor, pathetic creatures, but it afforded me the chance to study this elusive species in its natural habitat.

My initial observations were of the curious nomenclature they use to identify their young. From listening to the panicked shouts every time one would go off to have fun in another part of the park and be slightly out of sight, I learned that I was observing a "Tyson" and a "Caden."

For those of you unfamiliar with this strange system Suburbanites use to name their young, I can reveal that Tyson is the either the surname of a disgraced cannibalistic former boxer or a company that produces chicken nuggets.

I came up empty on the name "Caden," but it does sound like the word "cadence," which is only cool if you are a drummer. In fact, were I a drummer (beyond Donkey Konga and Rock Band, that is) I would probably have a "Cadence," a "Zildjian" and maybe a "Snare," because I would be that cool.

Further eavesdropping revealed more names of no or dubious origins as well as 2 Sophias, 2 Nevaehs, and upwards of 4 Bellas.

Most of these names were easily found on something called "Baby Center's Most Popular Names of 2010" and a great deal of those ended with "-aden," leading me to believe that a typical suburbanite possesses little to no imagination or original thought.

And, on a side note, what the actual fuck is this Nevaeh shit.
Oh, it's Heaven backwards! Isn't it adorbs?
I'm pretty sure St. Peter himself would cast you out of that same Heaven for trying to make this name happen.

Another curious trait of a Suburbanite is their appearance. I found a significant division among Suburbanites. I shall split the Suburbanite into two distinct groups:
The Peacocks and The Pretenders.

The Peacocks possess the habit of dressing as if attending a shopping date to somewhere expensive and they tend to dress their young in a similar manner, possibly to use them as a decoy to fool enemies or competitive shoppers. Names like Ralph Lauren, Hollister, Abercrombie and Fitch, and Lily Pulitzer are branded on them. It is possible that these brands identify who owns the individual Suburbanite, as a rancher owns a cow. This theory was strengthened when I observed them adopting marsupial traits and carrying around 30-40 pounds of possessions in a pouch made of said cow and branded with a cryptic "LV."

Also strengthening my baser creature theory is the toxic scents these females give off, much like a skunk. They do not seem to produce it, but instead spray it from a glass bottle, usually with their owner's name on it. This could lead me to believe that they are not repelling humans as much as they are letting other owners know that they are taken by someone else--another branding method, perhaps.

These females are also oblivious to the impracticality and dangers of their primitive weapons known as "Stilettos" while traversing cedar chips, wood panelling, and sand.

Their young imitate their mothers. I found a curious trend of young and old alike of wearing pants with words "Juicy" across the posterior, which leads me to believe that these creatures have not developed advanced personal hygiene.

Group 2 were noticeably dissimilar in dress habits than their young. These females wore plainer colors and clothing. They bore no brandings but had already branded their young, possibly to be branded by association. These females also complained to each other of being broke despite spending 100 dollars on a candle holder and 70 dollars on two candles at a Suburbanite ritual known as a "Partylite Party."

One trait these two groups seem to have in common lies in their prioritizing. Listening to their conversations and observing their possessions, it was clear that these females live only to serve their young. Any attempts at making conversation of an adult nature were quickly thwarted by one or more females by turning the conversation back round to the young. All roads seemed to lead to the young as if they were the leaders of the group. In fact, the females seemed to do most of the tasks for the young, such as cleaning up the garbage the young made and left on the ground, peeling fruit and serving it to them, and catering to every whim the young had.

(like this, but not sexy. And also not dead)

I now feel that the females were nothing more than servants to the young. I wonder if these females willingly gave up their freedom and social lives to live to serve 24 hours a day. These females seemed to lament a little at the loss of true adult functions. When they did speak briefly of entertainment, they spoke of the more baser forms of it, entertainment that required very little thought or emotion (something called "The Bachelor" and "The Voice", before bringing it back round to how to obtain Justin Bieber tickets for their 9 year olds.

The eating habits of Suburbanites are just as curious. These females, in the presence of each other spoke of more "sophisticated" fare such as Tijuana Flats, California Tortilla, and Baja Fresh (clearly, these females were craving what only a burrito could deliver...possibly a metaphor for something else missing in their lives), but as soon as the young came demanding McDonald's, the females caved without a fight.

By now, my kids were actually begging for mercy thanks to 112 degree tropical heat, and the scarf, my decoy, could actually now make Tom Baker have a little scarf envy, so I packed up the spawn and headed for the car. I passed several vehicles that were seemingly solely for the purpose of boasting about the young and transporting them. I saw decals proclaiming the perferred sports choices of the young, info about their education, and how many young were usually being transported. I saw little to no evidence of the preferred habits of the driver. Indeed, despite paying for the vehicle, there was no evidence of adult involvement in the vehicle at all. Whereas in more civilized societies, one has a sense of pride in the adult's preferred sports or choice of societal groups.

The differences I have noted today between Suburbanites and more civilized groups are great, indeed. There is little emphasis on adults, despite the accomplishments, experience, and wisdom an adult can impart. These Suburbanites have lost their purpose in life. They live only to cater to their young and in fact do everything possible to prevent the maturation of their young. They latch on to their young like lampreys to a shark and serve as padding when they explore and King Solomon when they disagree. Their preferred entertainment is whatever their young desire and they make no attempt to bestow unto them a more varied sense of what the world has to offer. These Suburbanites force themselves to listen to whatever crap Nick Jr. and Playhouse Disney is throwing up these days without compromise instead of varying it with more grown-up offerings, leading them to break and snap the CD in half in a fit of rage.

What I am saying here, people, is that it is great to be dedicated to your kids, but when you lose who you are, it can never end well.

They will not die if you make the decision to throw on some Rolling Stones or Echo and the Bunnymen or old school Tom Petty or even some of the cleaner Queens of the Stone Age.

They will not become mass murderers if you tell them they cannot watch ANT Farm or Shake it Up because you want to finish watching the news or last night's Conan.

They will not die of food poisoning if you make the adult decision to eat at Tijuana Flats instead of McDonald's. Who is paying for the food anyway? If you are worried about their behaviour, then TEACH THEM TO BEHAVE. You are their teachers, their disciplinarians, and their bosses. They do not rule you. You work and pay the bills and have already been children. You grew up. You need to act like one.

And for the love of all things holy, go out there and do something without your kids. They won't become mental if you want a night with the girls or a night alone. And for God's sake, have some SEX, ladies. Remember the thing that used to be fun? You can totally do that now and there are ways to do it and not end up with more little humans, even. Put down the burrito and find the one in your man's pants (or the equivalent in your lady's pants) and put the kids to bed early. Olé!

Ms. Palm Bitch

Ooh, look at me! I got Hipstamatic! I'm Ansel fucking Adams!

Rise of the Suburbanites