Now, I’m not a paranoid, but I have a very strong suspicion that hipsters are plotting to take over the world. They are slowly creeping south from their neighborhoods of Wicker Park, the Mission and Brooklyn and are infiltrating the ends of the earth. I know this, because somewhere en route to Antarctica, I met their leader. He was sitting across from me in the Ushuaia, Argentina airport, and his name was Haven. He wore black patent leather Nike Air Force Ones, dark denim skinny jeans, and a jean vest with lamb‘s wool lining. He had horn-rimmed glasses, and his hair perfectly coiffed to the side with a cigarette perched on stand-by behind one ear.
After a few minutes of awkward silence I thought I’d make small talk:
“You from the States?”
“Brooklyn.”
“Small world! I mean, I’m not from Brooklyn, but I’ve been to Brooklyn. And here we are, almost at the end of the world…. You headed to Antarctica?”
“Yeah, two week cruise.”
“That sounds incredible. Are you planning to do some trekking? Or are you just going for the penguins? No judgment if so. Personally, I think tuxedo birds are enough reason to go…”
“Meh. I don’t really care about penguins.”
“Really? But have you seen them walk? They are so awkwardly adorable.”
“Actually I’m going to work on a feature film I wrote.”
“A film?”
“Yes. I’m shooting images that represent the stark emotional landscape of my main character– a transvestite rodeo cowboy from South Dakota.”
“Interesting. So, icebergs?”
“Yeah. No one’s done it yet.”
“Only because they haven’t made the obvious connection.”
“Should be good.”
“Sounds like it. Well, safe travels, and stay warm. Can you fit long johns under those jeans? You may get kind of cold out there.”
“I’ll be good. I brought my own Wild Turkey… Just add glacier ice.”
And this, dear reader, is the real reason our polar caps are in danger.
