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Los Angeles – the ironic fashion-sense capital of the world. There are parts of town where you can't even go if the expression on your t-shirt is not polar opposites with the way you actually feel and think. So when I was in Florida this Christmas and my grandfather offered up this baseball cap, I snatched at it with greedy delight.

My brother and step-sister scoffed their disgust. Why would I want such a hideous hat? And why, now that I had it, should they give me a ride back from Delray Beach?


Because I am not a Hipster. But with this one-size-fits-all adjustable cotton crown, I would be the greatest Hipster of all.

Hipsters would see me on their excursions to the Sherman Oaks Galleria and hang their heads. They'd pine, "Were he a Los Feliz-dwelling, horned-rimmed glasses wearing, tight-t-shirt besporting member of our kind, why, we'd bow down before him. We’d follow his every intimation and declaration. We'd hoist him on our shoulders and cheer as he opened the old alpha-male's jugular with his jaws and be, thus anointed in his green-tinged and so-much-cooler-than-you-it-hurts blood, our new leader. Our women would swoon and our men would nod their respect and tip their trucker-caps to him. In the old west, we would have named him the Sheriff of Silverlake."

But sorry, everyone. I am no Hipster. I will not be the one to lead you to take your place on the national arena. You will set no agenda, lead no debate.

You must find another messiah.

For I just came storming into your house, Hipsters. I just slam-dunked over you and tongue-kissed your mom. Feel violated? You should. Because you will never have a more hideous/awesome hat than this.

PS-- Does it burn you up inside that I actually like knishes? That's right. I'm not even wearing this hat ironically.

What a waste...