The Dangerous Mind of Dan Luke

Indie kids are a rare breed . The scene is like the perfect balance of scummy skaters and dirty, chi-balancing, tree-fucking hippies. Personally I love it to death, but it leaves me with so many questions. Why do all Indie girls dress like teenage victims from 1970’s slasher movies? Why do we all have to wear Thurston Moore sunglasses? Why does Kim Gordon look like Iggy Pop with tits? And why is there a mass Indie Kid exodus to Pitchfork Music Festival every single year?

These questions are hard. But every single year I find myself amidst LSD guzzling hippies listening to music no one has ever heard of, smoking too much pot, and drinking too much malt liquor.

It’s a nice experience. There’s good music and there’s terrible music. There are hulking gangster rap stars performing in front of 15,000 gangly, dreadfully pale and skinny Indie kids. Gleefully playing along as if they aren’t gangly, dreadfully pale, skinny Indie kids.

I mean, I guess it’s not that bad. There are a few things Indie kids have in their dance vocabulary: Such as the obligatory Indie head bob . In which the Indie individual in question pumps his head two and fro. Or, if you’re an exceptional performer you might get the Indie “I know that band” finger point and obligatory Indie head bob . Or perhaps you are on the upper tiers of Indie Stardom. You are the Indie Eddie Van Halen. Then you’ll get the awkward “I’m a fucking white and doing interpretive dancing which may remind you of an epileptic mildly retarded child being assaulted by a badger” Indie dance. It’s quite lovely and rare.

That’s all we do. Sure we get pretentious and brag about our wax record collection (That’s all they are, fuck you guys), but that’s it.

The hippies at Pitchfork however, are a completely different story. They meditate and engage in the sackery of hack . Which, if you already do not know, involves the primitive notion of launching a small psychedelic colored bean back to your dirty hippie friends via the extension of your dirty hippie legs.

And don’t worry that you’re working up a sweat you filthy vegan piece of shit, because you don’t shower anyway.

I should fucking kill all of you.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate you guys for your ideals. Surely, a drug induced pseudo-anarchist nation based on the ideals of no morals and reckless sexual abandon appeal to me - when I’m drunk . But I do hate you for one thing:

Hippies of America. What the fuck is up with you and climbing trees and not giving a fuck about anyone else except your hippie breathren? Seriously, I’ll be hanging out at a show and I’ll see your dirty ass tumble out of a tree on top of other adoring fans. I’ve seen you spill beer on tiny Asian Indie girls and watched them cry. Do you know what it’s like being a tiny Asian girl in an entire Asian family you dirty hippie? You’re forced to do slave labor , the only people you’re allowed to hang out with are your parents , and you’re lucky if you get to leave your room. Usually the stereotypical Asian father keeps his stereotypical daughter Shing Hu Chan, locked up in her room so she can study to be a pre-med major or some shit. Fuckin’ stereotypical Asian pricks. You fucking hippies wouldn’t know that, would you? You don’t know what oppression is, your parents stopped giving a shit about when you showered when you were five.

“Mom, where’s the soap?” You would say.
To which your dirty hippie mother would retort, “Chill the fuck out man. Hit this joint.”

Then you’d get evicted and live a tree, but you’d be on so much LSD that you wouldn’t care anyway.

Please note that I’m drawing all of this from what you’ve shown me at Pitchfork. Since, amidst the densely packed Girl Talk show at Pitchfork you hippies took a typical action: Climbing the fucking trees. Good thing all of you were drunk. Every time one of your drunk asses struggled up the tree, thirty preppy girls and scenesters would scream and throw their arms about wildly. It was like some kind of panicked mosh pit. Until one hippie in a tight blue dress pushed her way in front of me.

“SUPPORT HER!” She screamed at us.

Obviously, she had to be talking about her other hippie brethren which was about to fall out of the tree despite her intense efforts to climb it.

“EVERYONE! SUPPORT HER! HARNESS YOUR SPIRIT ENERGY!”

She extended an open palmed hand. And I watched this dirty drunk hippie stumble around shooting imaginary spirit power at her hippie breathren, I think that she believed this was helping the situation, but to me she just looked like a drunk hippie bitch.

“BALANCE YOUR INNER CHI. AND PROJECT IT AT HER.” She screamed at me.
“I’d rather see her fall out of the tree.”
Her pupils dialated and tried to focus, she stumbled around and then, finally she retorted:
“YOUR INNER CHI. BALANCE IT. PROJECT AT HER.” She responded.
And I was ever so grateful that she reiterated just the bare minimum of her statement to me.

And then, yet another hippie breathren made his way past us through the crowd. He tried desperately to project his Chi at the girl climbing the tree, but instead he just laid a large meaty shit in his pants.

Causing a member of the audience to scream out, “Aw, that dude just shit his pants!”

That’s right. Now I had two hippies in front of me. This captain planet in training and some drunk hippie dude that just shit his pants.

It was at that moment that I decided that I fucking hated hippies. Everything they stand for, everything they believe in. Because you see, most of them claim and seek refuge in idealist ways: They believe in freedom. That of sexual abandon, reckless drug binges, and living out in forests. They seek freedom from responsibilities and the backdoor to modern society. At least thats what they believe - at first. But then they - and the scene - morph from those idea’s to pure decadence. I.E. How can we do whatever the fuck we want, when we want to, and how we want to? Hippies turn from crusaders to helpless junkies looking to be as fucked up, and as fucked up - as they can possibly be. The said ideals from their past now just rarely pulled out as mere excuses.

So don’t shower. Hang out in the vegan section at Whole Foods. I don’t give a shit. But at least know that I am on to you. Your scene is dead. You will rue the day you fucked with me and I will smite you all and your decadent ways. Oh, and Animal Collective’s new album sucks .

Filed under: Music, Personal Entry, Pop Culture Ramblings, Season 2