In Glendalough no one can hear you scream

We set out at dawn. This was dangerous. Very dangerous. In fact dangerous didn’t even cover it. It was super dangerous. The type of dangerous that makes Michael Jackson’s Dangerous Album look far less dangerous than what it is and that in itself, is dangerous. Why was it so dangerous? Well let me tell you my little hipling, Nyree and I were going into the wild. Glendalough to be exact. Why? For the night before, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, except for Anved, Nyree and I who were staying up downing whiskey and listening to a Belgian dance remix of Saved By The Bell dialogue, Anved said the following...

Anved: You crazy Irish, you don’t understand Mother Nature.

Nyree & Brian: We’re not Irish, we’re European.

Anved: You just don’t understand Mother Nature. If you understand Mother Nature, you understand fear. And then you’re not afraid of anything. 

Nyree & Brian: Wtf Anved, lay off the whiskey... and stop eating that hummus. It’s laced with Vodka.

But something struck home. Anved went to bed but we stayed up all night and before dawn, we took our fixies and cycled to Glendalough. Still drunk at the start but fairly sober by the time we arrived from sweat and general exertion, we drank loads of water and freshened ourselves up. Nyree then produced a sneaky bottle of whiskey from her bag, so we downed that and got drunk again, smoked a cigarette and began our drunken rambling into the uncharted abyss of the ‘Irish Wild’. 

Now, we’ve seen every episode of Lost and seen Tom Hanks get a hard-on for that Wilson ball in Castaway, so we thought we we’re pretty sorted out mentally for what could happen. But we weren’t.  After treking for an eternity through bush and briar, I took off my shoes to go barefoot and be more one with nature like an Indian or something to that effect. They’re always pegging it away from the white man in films without a care in the world. Apart from the white man that is. Immediately after making this transition though, I stood on the plastic thing that six packs of beer come in. Shit. I couldn’t shake it from my ankle. It was a little bit sore and a total fashion-fail. I felt like one of those turtles you see on a GreenPeace ad with their head stuck in it. What the hell was this doing here? This is meant to be the ‘Irish Wild’, the land that time forgot! Nyree, being my bessie, got me to sit down and rest my foot up on a rock. She took water from her canteen (The whiskey bottle we filled up with water) and ran some over my foot. Not sure what it was for but it felt good. The sun blared high in the sky. It must’ve been high noon. My ankle hurt from the plastic and I was beginning to feel traces of fear. Mother Nature was winning. 

Nyree: Can you walk?

Brian: Yeah, but it slightly irritates my ankle and it’s a complete fashion-fail.

Nyree: Totes. 

Somewhere off in the distance a bird chirps. 

Nyree: I have to go get help. 

Brian: You can’t leave me. We’re in the middle of nowhere.

Nyree: I’ll be back for you as soon as I can. 

Nyree goes to her backpack and takes out another bottle of whiskey. 

Nyree: (Cont’d) Take my canteen. 

Brian: I don’t need water, I need to ... Where you going?!

Nyree: I’ll be back for you.

Brian: No Nyree! No..................

And just like that she was gone. I saw her running over the hill, stopping to answer a text then continue running for not only my life but I suspect, hers as well. We were in this together. Trapped in the unknown. Facing fear and all his friends and being alone with our animal spirits or some shit like that.

I waited. The heat rose, I looked at my pasty casper-looking skin and thought, I’m like, so going to get a tan line. I almost thought - ALMOST- that it was a bad choice to wear my favorite Du’lamois nuatical tanktop but when remembering the stupid plastic thingy wrapped around my ankle I came back to my senses. Looking good up top, CarBomb on the bottom, such is life. My mouth was dry as if I’d eaten five slices of full-fat bread, I took out the canteen and drank it all. The whiskey tasting water stung my throat but within minutes I was feeling much better. Ah hydration, a hipster’s best friend. Apart from tapered jeans that is. Then, all of a sudden, I became delirious. Heat-stroke. I have heat stoke. I’m done for, Mother Nature has won. But then deep down somewhere deep inside my hipster soul I decided that this is no place for a hipster to die. Especially not me, because even though I had only been in nature or the ‘Irish Wild‘ as I had taken to calling it for half a day, I was already over it. Mother Nature is a bitch. And she wears clothes from TK Maxx. I will not die here! I have to move. I have to beat nature.

I stood up, the slight irritation in my ankle was now more annoying than anything else but I pressed on. For some reason I found myself with a long stick to help me walk and walk I did. Like a trendy Gandalf without the hair or the awful sandals. I walked and walked in the direction Nyree ran, the direction we came. Over hills, down trails, through thick bush and over rivers simply trying to find civilisation and with that, my bessie Nyree. Animals of all shapes and sizes moved round me. They sense a kill is on the cards. “You’re all knobends!” I shouted to the animal kingdom, but still they circled me. Hares and squirrels and all sorts of furry evil buggers. I kept moving, walking until I was sure the skin on my feet would need to be moisturised. Suddenly, I remembered my iPhone! It was in my pocket! I pulled it out and looked. Useless. I don’t know if it was the delirium or the fact that I had recently changed the clock to 24hours but I couldn’t make heads nor tails of it. Must be the delirium. Time has lost all meaning. I also had about 34 new Follower requests on Instagram but thought it would be better to deal with that later. When I figured out WTF time was up to. 

I came to a clearing and after calling Nyree’s name for a few seconds, I slumped down. The water that tasted strangely of whiskey had left a sour taste in my mouth and I had a splitting headache. This is it. Death. As I was about to lie down in a casual pose that would make me look cool when found a few weeks from now, I noticed a man sitting on some grass, with his legs crossed like some Yoga dude. I shouted for him to help me. He didn’t respond. I shouted again. He looked up and slowly came to his feet and began walking over. He levitated or so it seemed. His feet not touching the ground and dressed head to toe in white. This is it, I thought. He is God and I’m dying. I knelt down before him. Delerious. Barefoot. Sweating. Du’lamois nautical tanktop still intact thank god. Or should I say, thank this guy right before me. And so when he reached me I did.

Brian: Thanks God.

God: Sorry.

Brian: Thanks for saving my Du’Lamois nautical tanktop.

God: What do you mean?

Brian: You’re such a joker God. Take me with you, for I am ready. I came, I hipped, I tried passionately to eat vegan and now it is my time to leave this planet and I accept it. With all the peacefulness of a Jedi.

God: Whats wrong with you? Are you Ok?!

Brian: No God I’m not OK thanks for asking. I’m too fashionable for this mortal coil. I’m too cool. Although not now. Now I’m quite delirious and thirsty and starving. Let’s blow this shiz.

God: Hang on mate.

And with that he ran away. Why in the name of himself was he running away? Well that’s great, seriously. Meet the big man at death’s door and he turns out to be a total douche. And the white does nothing for him. Looks even more like Casper than me. At this revelation I heard Nyree’s voice calling my name. Is Nyree dead too? Maybe she could flirt with Gasper (God and Casper) and get him to send us back to Earth. Maybe she could finally -

Nyree: Wake up!

Brian: Nyree? Is that you? You look like an angel...

Nyree: Why are you lying in the grass? You’ll ruin your Du’Lamois nautical tanktop. 

Brian: Huh?

Nyree: Why didn’t you stay were I left you? I found a pair of scissors to cut the plastic. 

What the hell was going on?! I was close to death I was sure of it. And now here I am, Nyree standing over me without a care in the world and none of this making sense. I feel like that perpetual seven year old looking Leo DiCaprio guy from the film Inception. With Nyree’s help I stood up and noticed something. It was about 20 feet away. It rocked my world.

Brian: Is that Glendalough car park?

Nyree: Yeah, we only walked for about 5 minutes. I was on my way back to get you when this old guy came over saying “your friend is acting funny, check on him”. 

Brian: Gasper is nice like that.

Nyree: And that we should be ashamed of ourselves for being drunk in a beautiful family place like this.  Did you drink my second whiskey bottle?

Brian: I thought it was water. Totes soz.

While Nyree was kneeling down to cut the plastic off my ankle I spotted Gasper with his elderly wife having a picnic on the grass. It just doesn't make sense though, why is he still in white? Maybe Nyree is part of the dream and I’m in Inception? Or maybe Gasper is God and I’m in hell? But in this hell the one person you care about the most doesn’t believe you and gives out to you 24/7 for the rest of eternity?

Brian: Wait! Hold on a second. If what you’re saying is true Nyree then why is he dressed head to toe in white?

Nyree: He’s dressed head to toe in Penny’s. C’mon, you know when you see unfashionable clothes on people you try block it out for the state of your mental health. Which means they usually appear to be dressed in white. It’s a mechanism you’ve developed to combat bad fashion.

Brian: Oh yeah. Good call.

The plastic was cut off my ankle. I was finally free. Relief and... wait... 

And just like that I threw up all over my Du’lamois nuatical tanktop. A mixture of whiskey, cinnamon and the remnants of yesterdays blue cheese crackers with banoffi coffee. Nyree patted my back, she’s sound like that.

Brian: (Sobbing) I’m a fashion fail.

Nyree: You’re not. Nature just bet you but don’t take it to heart, Mother Nature’s an asshole. Like seriously. 

Brian: Thanks bessie. 

Nyree: Let’s go get some more whiskey.

Brian: Good plan! I’ll get a new Du’lamois nuatical tanktop as well. 

And as the afternoon came in, Nyree and I hopped on our fixies and left the family orientated Glendalough for the familiar pastures of Dublin city centre. We got three bottles of whiskey, a bag of tobacco, two Vegan milkshakes and a bag of horse feed cause we’re bad ass like that. We arrived back in the apartment, hit the roof garden and began digging into our shopping. I didn’t give Anved the extra bottle of whiskey, partly because he was right about me being defeated by Mother Nature but mostly because I wanted to pour some on the floor for all the ‘fallin homies’ that nature has claimed over the years. And that was a lot. In fact, a whole bottle’s worth. We smoked cigarettes listening to some Fran Bell poetry on audio tape, approved the 34 following requests on Instagram, tried on my new   Du’lamois nuatical tanktop and all the while, couldn’t shake the feeling that Mother Nature, even in the Irish Wild or anywhere on Earth, was a total bitch. A bitch who shops in TK Maxx.

Vahe Gabrielyan is a hipster from Armenia and he once punched Mother Nature in the face with his fist so hard that she almost went back to the Ice Age. Here's his pics, boom! 

The Carnival guy was a funny shot, the person was dressed like a bushman, had a Polaroid camera, smoked [I believe] Rothmans cigarettes and looked really cross. 

About 12-13 years ago a widely read Russian newspaper, Argumenti i fakti (Arguments and facts) held a photo competition the winner of which was to be a photo of the newspaper being read in the most unlikely spot. This guy in Burj-al -Arab hotel in Dubai was not something extraordinary for Russians and the photo did not win.

On first day in Venice, Hasmik and I saw these guitar players on Saint Marco plazza and the impression was that we were watching a Western or a film on Mexico.

I just like the shot and her cheerful looks.

They did not pay attention and I did not ask. It would have been a shame to distract them.

If the boss wants to do something, many people oblige....

Speakers' Corner, Hyde Park, London. The most 'un-bothered' performers of everywhere.

Speak soon hombres!

Nyree & Brian

Hipsters we met and liked

"Whatev's, we're over it."

The power of love... fashionable love...

Asking a hipster out is very hard. Here are certain rules that will help. 

If you sound like your interested in them then you’ve got no chance. 

They’ll be over you (not in a sexual way) before you know it. As we’ve said before, never show excitement. Make it seem like meeting up with that hipster whom you fancy could be achieved if you find time to fit them in between your stressful schedule of knitting your latest sheep’s wool cardigan and fixing your Fixie that has, for some strange reason, rusted and broken after you spent all night cycling through the rain listening to Howl by Allen Ginsberg on your iPod. Which by the way, was in a case that made it look like a old skool walkman. 

Don’t use very extensive vocabulary.

Seriously don’t, it’s a CarBomb waiting to happen. Just because you’ve read every beat poet and novel that the Guardian put in their 100 Novels To Read Before You Die list doesn’t mean that you actually speak like you have. No. No. NO. 

So, that same hipster who’s been giving us that funny feeling in our pants is in the same cafe as us? Then my friend, this is what you do. 

You're at separate tables, beside each other.

You: So over this place.

Hot Hipster: Yeah.

Beat. 

You: Heard there’s a cafe down the street. Just opened. No one knows about it.

Hot Hipster: Cool.

You: Totes.

Beat.

Take a sip of your coffee.

You: Ugh, even the coffee here is shit. And like, I know coffee.

Hot Hipster: Yeah, coffee is so cool.

You: One of my favorite things. Part of my life. 

Get up and go to the toilet. Come back in two mins so there is no doubt that it wasn’t a number two, and pack up your belongings. These consist of the novel your reading (Preferably something in a foreign language. Flemish for instance?), your wayfarers, rolling tobacco and an acorn that later you tell the Hot Hipster fell out of a tree that morning and it reminded you of yourself.

You: I’m outta here. They have a Cecelia Ahern novel on the bookcase, for like, the customers to read.

Hot  Hipster: What? Where’s the bookcase?!

You: You can’t see it. I destroyed it. I’m so against bad fiction. 

Hot Hipster: Yeah, so am I.

You: Totes. See you later, I’m off to that cafe.

Beat.

Hot Hipster: Where is it?

You: Suppose I could show you. Whatev’s. 

Hot Hipster: Cool.

You: Totes. 

And just like that, love is born. Like an acorn is born on a tree. Nature. Whatev's. 

Don’t dress for the date.

Even with writing that sentence I’ve made a mistake. It’s not a date. It never is. If someone asks, Oh hey, heard you're meeting so and so later? You say you’ve forgotten about it and are just meeting up with them to test out some ideas for your latest novel. 

Now, the dressing part. You have to dress like that previous statement you said to your overly curious friend is true. No socks allowed. When they ask why? It’s because you and the Native Americans share the same belief that once the foot is covered, so is the soul. Also say that if you had your way you wouldn’t wear shoes at all, you’d just be rocking barefoot 24/7. Or natures soles. See what I did there?

No freshly ironed clothes allowed. I don’t care if your favorite shirt goes with the pants you want to wear, or if that sexy little skirt is creased from being on the floor of your room for too long, do not iron them. The hipster will know. We always know. We can smell the steam residue on the fabric. Simply, the morning of the date (but don’t call it that) spread the piece of creased wardrobe that you want to wear on your kitchen table and place a selection of books all over it. What this will do is slowly take the heavy creases out through the pressure provided while the kitchen table will make the clothes in question smell like you were baking all day. Which hipsters love. Note: The more obscure the book, the better the distressed creases will be. 

No baby faced assassins allowed. Sorry girls, this ones for the men. Do not shave. If you have a beard, keep it. If you have stubble, then shave but ONLY into a mustache. That upper lip will drive that girl hip. And if you have a mustache then only order drinks that will leave it’s remnants on the facial hair in question. Milk, Guinness, Frozen Yogurt. 

Which brings us onto food. 

Meat is not good for the ol’Hipster loins.

When this is successful, which it no doubt will be, you bring the Hot Hipster to the cafe you were talking about. Or if it’s too hard to find an unheard of place that’s right up the top in the cool standard then simply pretend to get distracted halfway there by the sunset, a street busker or a wandering pigeon etc. When you’ve stopped for about a minute or so, simply say that you're pretty hungry, so over that cafe you were on your way to and your gonna go someplace else. 

The Hot Hipster will be bowled over by the fact that you’re over something before even trying it and will be beginning to develop feelings. Bring them to a restaurant that ONLY serves Vegan food. Order whichever meal makes your plate look like it’s just dinner for horses, oats, granules, seeds etc and have a prepared rant about the bourgeoise establishment you currently find yourselves in and how the slave trade is alive and well in modern Ireland. Also try breaking into another language because you forgot that the Hot Hipster only speaks English. The pleb. Hot Hipster, who once was the hottest hipster you ever laid your non-prescription glasses on will be getting so turned on now, will be thinking so much of you and your intelligence that they’ll be thinking this is defo an Instagram moment.

The minute you see that iPhone4 being raised and the Hot Hipster taking a couple of photos of the evening via Instagram it’s pretty much a no brainer. You're gonna score.  

Note: What drink to order? Anything with Elderflower, Westvleteren 12, or the Hipster Hot Pot, which consists of 4 individual espressos poured into one giant mug and a piece of celery on the side. 

The no-pants dance means you still accessorize. 

Now, assuming you’ve followed these simple rules then dinner will fly-by and the Hot Hipster cannot wait to take you home. If on the off chance they want to go back to yousr and you don’t want them to, then simply say your homeless. It’ll turn them on more. 

You get back to theirs, some obscure music is playing, the lights get dim and one thing leads to another and before you know it, naked love is on the cards. No bother. Everyone loves sex and hipsters are no different. But, while the rest of the population will take off all their clothes, hipsters leave some on. Deck shoes: a must. If you want to keep on socks then only knee high. If your wearing glasses, leave them on also, but preferably try switch to your spare ones with no lenses. Scarves, in winter, will drive the Hot Hipster crazy. If you rock it in summer, they’ll want to marry you!

Now what moves to unleash in the bedroom or fold-out bed that you find yourself on. Well why not try the Hipster Shuffle, the Wicker Wombat, the Tallahassee Tussle, the Bronco Charge or the awe inspiring Flannel Fluter. If you don’t know these sexual moves and techniques then reading this has all been in vain and you shouldn’t even ask that Hot Hipster out.

 Contrary to belief, people are not the same all over the world. But cool people are. Example: our beautiful hipster comrade Sohn Supradya Aursudkij who made a video called Stop Global Warming in between hanging out at the local flea markets, cafes and trendy bars. This is a still image from the video. Check it before you wreck it!

 "What if the world's average water level raises to this extent..."

Sohn, we love you, danke tres much!

Here's the link to the whole video, check it out and be amazed:
 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=36gDZ_28wsw

Speak soon!

Nyree & Brian

Hipsters we met and liked

"Whatev's, we're over it."

We hip, therefore we are

"I hip, therefore I am" - Nyree Yergainharsian
"I am, therefore I hip" - Brian Bennett

Last Tuesday, after spending an afternoon trawling through our collective bookshelf and reading everything we had on Fran Bell, the ultimate hipster poet, Nyree and I decided, with coffee still steaming from the cups on the table and our stomachs grumbling in anticipation of the Linseed Soup with Cauliflower and Turnip homemade bread which we were about to make, that we would undertake the dubious task of becoming poets. Professional poets. Actually scrap the professional, we don’t care enough. Just poets. Beatnik, fashionista, vegan loving poets. Who eat meat. On occasion. (Even that contradiction makes for interesting verses no?) and who troll the dank and dusty bars looking for a stage in which our voices could be heard.

“Let me speak!” and “Hear me vegans of Dublin!” were some of the sentences we shouted from our apartment roof later that evening. Nyree wearing a 60’s linen dress littered with butterfly's and a headscarf which had written all over it, in a peculiar font, Butterfly Catcher. 

I had dispensed with clothes all together and simply wore a pair of briefs in which along the waistline was written a single word over and over. Boxers. 

In the morning we awoke at the godforsaken hour of eleven and had a light breakfast of cigarettes and coffee, (Espresso for her, Ristretto for me) and thought about what we would write for a while. After some serious musings we had brunch which consisted of brown bread and soup (Wild Languedoc tomato for her and mixed celery without celery for me) followed by saying that famous line from Mid-Term Break by Seamus Heaney over and over while listening to Animal Collective. A four foot box, a foot for every year. By the time we got ready to leave the apartment we were fairly tired. First of all we had to decide what to wear, then change our outfits because the new version of us, the ones who like to write poetry might not wear what we had chosen. Then we thought it is even more ironic that we dress like we always do and not like poets, so in the end we settled on our original outfits. Plus we planned with Google maps which was the best possible route for inspiration. We tried to select a course which would not only pass statues and local landmarks but also semi rough areas with the occasional Lidl or Aldi. This was surprisingly easy in Dublin. Ready to go, at the front door, we noticed the clouds becoming dull and grey and that even though it was July, rain was definitely on the cards in the next while. The collective decision was then that the best way to gain inspiration was to have a mid day snooze and let our subconscious do the work for us. Easy. So we slept.

And slept.

I awoke briefly to take a pee and get a glass of water from the kitchen. Nyree came into the kitchen to get a drink also. We both agreed that inspiration had not come and we needed more rest. So we slept.

And slept. 

It was after six in the evening when we awoke. We met in the kitchen and both agreed this time that inspiration had surely come. Our subconscious's had done their job. Thanks guys. We ate some fruit and had a cappuccino each to fill us up and hit the town, ready for whatever the open mic nights and this crazy new world of poetry had to offer us. We walked through the streets. Searching. Like poets always do. Poets love an oul search, be it physically searching for stuff or existentially searching I bet you that if you call up Seamus Heaney on the mobile you'll get his answering machine message which will say that Seamus can't come to the phone right now as he is currently off searching. Try it. That's a fact of life right there.

In the middle of a conversation about who’s subconcoius was more conscious of it’s carbon footprint we came across a small little bar which according to the obvious childlike writing in chalk on the blackboard out front had an open mic night that evening. We looked at each other and went in. 

Inside, it was dark and strangely smoky even with the smoking ban in effect. The clientele were head to tow in corduroy and clearly didn’t know a tapered jean if it hit them in the face. We went to the bar and ordered two bottles of Westvleteren 12 which needless to say the barman never heard of. In the end we settled for whiskey and ginger ale and watched some shabby long haired singer songwriter finish his set. (His last song was entitled Enjoy your muffins and your beers. Nuff said.).

He finished. Applause. Then the moment we had been preparing for happened. The applause finished and suddenly a lull descended across the establishment. Nyree and I looked around at everyone who in turn were looking around at everyone else. Everyone was waiting to see who would grace the stage with their presence. Nyree and I downed the remainder of our drinks, high-fived and walked up to the stage like it ain't no thing. It wasn't actually. If the poetry failed miserably we could always stop half way through and go through the latest trends via a presentation of some sort or maybe even start a Fund It campaign to give these people a chance to buy some new clothes and gain even the faintest hint of fashion. 

Up onstage, the lights hit us in the face and a deafly silence ensued. We agreed at the bar that Nyree would say her poem that she'd been working on. I would simply stand beside her, looking poet chic  and give support. Nyree approached the mic.

My coffee is black.

Like my hair.

My food is green.

Like the Earth.

So many people,

so many clothes, 

so many getting it wrong,

so many woes. 

I, who have hipped,

while waking barefoot in the streets,

have not got a care in my head. 

I, who cannot care,

while looking at your ugly clothes,

have died a fashion death, i'm in hell, I am dead.

Oh do not ask me,

what should I wear?

Oh do not ask me,

how should I do my hair?

Oh do not ask me,

why is coffee black?

Oh please just tell me

you're sorry for looking so tack.

Each and everyone of you

 seriously know a thing or two

about fashion and it's victims,

now what are you going to do?

Even though I applauded Nyree's honest and provoking piece, I think in between ducking the pint glass, the verbal abuse and the fact the bouncer would only let us leave through the back door, the general public were just not ready for us waxing lyrical about them. As some famous actor in some shit film once said, you can't handle the truth! And the sad truth is my fellow hipsters, a lot of them can't. Sadface.

To cheer us up though, check out Photographer to the stars, Ros Kavanagh being an absolute ledge-bag and sending in these photos. Or as we say in the biz, a 'series' of photos. Whatev's, no big deal.

"This series of pics is about a photographer trying to disrupt his droning aesthetic of objectivity by playing a part in his own image. A carefully composed photo of the grey lane way and flats is broken by some dubious attempts at having fun … but not succeeding altogether, possibly due to the regular visits to the local bakery. "

If Ros was in the audience that night he would've defended us. We know this. Hipsters stick together. Ros Kavanagh = LedgeBag, Hipster, Defender of the truth and all around great guy!

Staykool.

Nyree & Brian

Hipsters we met and liked

"Whatev's, we're over it".