Pam Anderson and Kid Rock to divorce? Say it ain't so!

Well, kiddies, if misery loves company, then I should be truly contented this week. First, I was joined by Kevin "She hate me" Federline in the "first male wives" club. Now comes the news, via the AP, that Kid Rock, too, has been kicked to the curb.

Yes, it's true, dear readers. Pamela Anderson, the one-time heroine of Tool Time and fantasy girl of Borat Sadiyev, has had enough bawitdaba in her life and called it quits after four months of matrimony, give or take.

For anyone who's counting, that's a month longer than my most recent celebration of love. Though, to be fair, I was screwing that one up after a month.

(To my formerly betrothed: That's my jacked-up way of saying I'm sorry. Not that it wins you back or anything.)

But I digress. We were talking about a wannabe cowboy and his comely Playmate ex-wife. I have no advice for Kid. He'll land on his feet, if for no other reason than that his cranium is so much lighter and smaller by comparison.

But sweet, dear Pam: You will need a good rebound. Someone who, like you, is going through a stressful time, but who isn't so sensitive that he will get attached.

My suggestion: Michael Richards.

 

Oh yeah, and have some pop candy.

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Annual "BUY NOTHING DAY" is right around the corner!

Well folks, if anything screams "pop culture" in our society today, it's the inexplicable urge to spend money on crap we don't need. But there's another way to go, and Black Friday - the fabled day after Thanksgiving that starts the onslaught of Christmas consumption for soccer moms, NASCAR dads, and Playstation punks nationwide - is a great time to start.

That's because, since 1997, Black Friday has been celebrated by some hipsters as Buy Nothing Day, a "24-hour consumer detox" for your pocketbook and your soul. Here's how Kalle Lasn and his cohorts at the culture-jamming Adbusters magazine describe Buy Nothing Day:

"From joining zombie marches through malls to organizing credit card cut-ups and shopoholic clinics, Buy Nothing Day activists aim to challenge themselves, their families and their friends to switch off from shopping and tune back into life for one day. ... Anyone can take part provided they spend a day without spending."

So how about it, folks? After you've eaten your turkey, show The Man that you ain't a sheep. Just... buy... nothing. Say it along with me: I don't need an iPod... We don't need a Wii!

And if you must find a way to occupy yourself on Friday, check out the Buy Nothing Day Web site, where you can download cool poster art, view video clips, and read about other hip slacktivists' plans of inaction for BND (all for free, of course. Think of it as shareware for your brain.)

And if you're still bored after that, take a short moment to say hi to my new friend and fellow blogger, Ah-nold! (While you're at it, do me a favor and leave him a comment asking him politely not to let the cyborgs eat my brains, or whatever, or else I'll have to send Sarah Conner after his cigar-chomping patoot. He'll understand.)

Now go eat some pop candy. And then say, "Baa-aaa," sheep!

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The Obligatory Britney/K-Fed Blog Post!

One of my dear readers recently pointed out the lack of coverage of a certain Toxic pop songstress's recent decision to nix her nuptials... I speak, of course, of the Gulf Coast's own Brit Spears and her pirouetting trainwreck of a "baby daddy," Kevin "I wanna be a singer too!" Federline.

This is a subject near and dear to my heart, dear readers, since the Hipster had a good relationship go bad right last week, right around the same time K-Fed got served (with divorce papers, that is... which, apparently, you can send by text-message nowadays). Like the Federale, I, too, lost my focus on the important things while concentrating on career-building; like him, I played the dirtbag card in one too many hands; and like him, I took the promise of a Camelot life and turned it into camel-flop.

But I hope to finish strong and redeem myself to my betrothed. Likewise, now is the time for everyone's favorite backup-dancing divorcee to be strong, especially for his babies!

So to you, K-to-tha-F-E-D, I say: Hang in there, big guy; whip out that tweed Kangol grandpa hat and that favorite sweat-stained tanktop. Take a walk outside the Speaderline compound and breathe in that crisp Malibu air. Get a great big tribute tattoo for your lady.

How about her initials, nice and big on you someplace?

(Think about it for a minute. It'll start to make sense.)

Oh, and remember: Work ain't the whole big anthill. Family matters.

As does literacy, in your case.

Also, if the situation gets dire, heed this irreverent advice from a certain California governor's fake blog.

 

And if that doesn't work, stuff yourself silly on some Pop Candy.

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Borat, Fake Stuff, and Real Kazakhs!

Sorry to go off the reservation and leave all three of you dedicated readers hanging here. The hipster broke out on a little spirit quest, and all it cost him was a month's time, a girlfriend, bail money, and his sanity.

 

Just kidding, folks! About the last two, anyway.

 

So what's new in Pop Wonderland? Honestly, I couldn't tell you, because I've just been too darned busy basking in the splendor that is Borat, my Kazakh friend. I just had to explain this hilarious racist misogynist to a friend who wasn't in on the joke, and our discussion also touched on the Borat creator's first alter ego, the cockney street punk Ali G (whose notoriety, praise heaven, has yielded this online street translator for the unhip).

 

Who doesn't remember with fondness the first time they saw Ali G discuss international security with former UN Secretary General Boutros Boutros Boutros Boutros (how many Boutroses or Boutrosi or Boutra IS that?) Ghali!

 

But all this documentary-news spoofing has some folks huffy. Like the two well-pickled fraternity pledges from a certain SEC school who insist they were utterly hoodwinked into signing releases and acting like racist knuckledraggers in Borat's film.

 

Which proves a couple of things:

 

First, that Ghali, an old Egyptian politician, is more hip than a couple of soused Steve Spurrier fans; and second, that there ain't no distinction between news and drama no more... for that, you can blame the Internet, or digital video. Borat, the lightning-rod character, would probably blame us Jews, but I swear to you that it really isn't my fault!

 

Anyway, for those of you who want a real taste of Kazakhstan, and Uzbekistan, and all the other former Soviet republics, a group of students from the region will be guests at a lunchtime lecture at FSU on Friday. Swing by the Devoe Moore Center, in Bellamy Hall, between 12:30 and 1:30 for Q&A and to learn what's hip behind the ex-Iron Curtain.

 

Oh yeah, and check out milady Whitney Matheson's Pop Candy Blog at USA Today for Borat blather and more.

 

It's good to be back, hipstaz!

 

 

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Hipster's got the fever - the vinyl fever

     So about this time last year, I had to go out to California to do a thing. While I was there, I visited the original, very cool Tower Records on Hollywood and Vine. If you haven't heard already, Tower is liquidating its stock and closing its doors forever. Bur as sad as I am, I know that vinyl lives on. L.A. still has the hipster's Mecca, a warehouse of music, movies, and poptitude called Amoeba Music. The place calls itself "the largest indie record store in the country," and brother, you'd better believe it. It's a neon pantheon in the heart of Hollywood, and you can't swing a swizzle stick in that place without hitting a bevy of great used CD's and movies, memorable concert posters, shirts, suicide girls and friendly walking encyclopedias of pop knowledge.

     But wait, there's more! Like free concerts inside the store, ala that classic of hip-pop drama, Empire Records. Imagine going down to the record warehouse to finally buy Depeche Mode's Violator on CD so you won't have to scratch the vinyl anymore, and being serenaded by my favorite new-ish band, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, live and in the flesh, as you paw through the scratch-and dent-specials. I eagerly await my next pilgrimage to this Promised Land of the Great Vinyl Gods.

     Until then, though, I can't complain about Tally's music store offerings, because I have the fever, the Vinyl Fever. Not only is this hangar bay on West Pensacola Street spilling great new and used music at the gills, but it seems to have channeled Amoeba Music's hiring mojo - the staff is hip and friendly to an extreme. Think the polar opposite of Jack Black from High Fidelity. Even better, Vinyl Fever's Web site is chock full of local artists, scene info, and recommendations that don't suck.

     And that's not all. This town's got a couple of hole-in-the-wall used CD stores that can't be beat.

     But if real vinyl - not just the metaphorical kind - is your thing, here's the best-kept secret in town: Check out Avant-Garb on the corner of Gaines and Macomb streets. The lovely keeper of this cool collectibles shop, Heather, maintains a mind-blowing stack of vintage records wayyyyyy in the back of the store. At the very least, you'll find a cool record cover to staple up as wall art, like in the bathrooms at Momo's Pizza.

     Anywhere I missed? Gosh yes, there is. Drop me a line or post a comment to share the info, all you hipster's apprentices.

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Pop! Goes the Hipster

     Hey, you. Yes, you.

     Are you hip? Do peers desperately seek out your opinion before buying the new Panic! at the Disco album, or a ninety-dollar Don Ed Hardy t-shirt with the rhinestone-studded snake tattoo monogram?

     Either way, I've got a secret to tell you: You can always be more hip.

     And that's where I come in. My father always told me that ninety percent of any job is holding people's hands. and I, dear reader, have come to hold your hand and teach you to be Bohemian by the numbers.

     Okay, I might be exaggerating a little bit. I might be just another prematurely-balding grad student in his twenties who reads The Hipster Handbook, listens to indie rock on WVFS  and thinks he knows pop culture from a hole in the wall. But for those of you who missed my column a few months back, this town is chock full of pop rocks and hip nuggets of gold. And you deserve a place in the blogosphere that polishes them down for you.

     So what's fair game in the world of the Hungry Hungry Hipster? Heck, what isn't? In the coming weeks, I will ruminate on the sights and sounds of Gaines Street, Railroad Square, Lake Ella, and maybe even Tennessee Street. I'll talk tattoos, music, cinema, lowbrow art and belly dancing, always dishing out the Big Bend's heaping helpings of each for you. And I'll occasionally fry bigger fish, like reality TV, the iPod revolution, and why we're all still upset at Facebook and YouTube.

     We might even explore the problems that come with being tragically hip, like: staying authentic and not "selling out"; spending a lot to look cheap; deciding if it's okay to work at Starbucks, Hot Topic, or All Saints forever; and determining whether metalhead dudes are permitted to date rockabilly chicks.

     However, folks, I'll need your help. I'm no evil hiptator, and I do not have perfect knowledge of Tallahassee's hiptastic splendor. So read on, and please PLEASE fill in the gaps with your postings or emails to me on local culture going "pop!"

Love,

The Hungry Hungry Hipster

P.S. Don't forget to check out USA Today online for your daily dose of Pop Candy. Whitney Matheson is my blog role model. Plus, she wears Chucks, so she must be cool.

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