Viced

Hating hipsters is as common a pastime as drinking PBR and smoking Parliaments. (It's pretty easy to talk shit about people you surround yourself with.) But really, the term is so generic these days no one should be offended by it. I'm not even going to bother trying to philosophize on hipsterism, but my general take on hipsters is this: If you're my age and you're reading this, you are probably a hipster, at least at the most basic level--you give a shit about being cool.

But there's also the extreme level of hipsterism. For this definition see Vice magazine.

Last Saturday in Montreal, I diddled in this Vice realm when I went to a party thrown by one of the editors. (Say what you want about me going to such a party in the hippest French city not in France. Like I said, I'm not defensive about it.) It was ironically (token word usage) located in his loft/permanently converted dance space above a Starbucks overlooking the Musee d'Art Contemporain de Montreal.

I don't think there was a purpose other than it was Saturday but there was a theme: the Apocalypse.

At first glance I thought the host was dressed as a baby. But he was actually Jesus, swaddled in a white diaper cloth with a crown of thorns and a detailed heart muscle painted onto his bare chest.

Fake tattoo art was the easiest way to express being struck by the Wrath while not having to sacrifice everyday costumes like mini rompers and neckies. Such as this girl with an upside down cross on her forehead:

A few others had 2012 written in their knuckles but couldn't explain much more than they knew it had something to do with the Mayan calendar. One guy I talked to opted for a gang member tear below his eye instead of the forehead cross. (Trying to be ironic without properly using the term perhaps?)

This was about as far as the apocalypse theme went, other than annihilating ourselves with vodka shots from espresso cups.

The music--mostly spun by the host, sometimes by a bear in a fur vest and red-and-white striped boxer briefs--was the real superstar of the party.

For instance, this song has been added into my instant classic repertoire: Let Me Smell Yo Dick by Riskay. Sample of the lyrics: Why you coming home five in the mornin? Sumtin's going on. Let me smell yo dick. (I highly suggest clicking on the link for the video. I'd embed it but it's been blocked.)

At around 5 a.m. the dance floor was still booming but we thought we'd depart the Vice disco bus. We were hungry tourists (and basically just not on drugs) so we opted to sneak out during the Thong Song and dive into a mound of fries covered in cheese curds and gravy, otherwise known as the Canadian delicacy, poutine.

Another annihilation accomplished.