Saturday, 26 May 2012

From Mongolia to Uzbekistan and back again?! Yes we can!

Ugh. Ouch. Oooh. Em.... Ugh..... stop will you .... Head.... sore........

That's right hipsterettes, we are HUNGOVER. And we're loving it! Why? Because we have been out partying. Till the early hours. Till dawn to be more precise. Specificity, whatev's. And one thing you should know, contrary to popular belief, is that a hungover hipster is a happy hipster! 

So what happened?

Well.

It started in the early afternoon. After cycling around our fixies (fixed gear bicycle) and taking some serious photo's on our SLR's we decided to have a few bottles of our preferred flemish beer, the Westvleteren 12 from our preferred hipster hangout, This Is Not A Bar in the leafy suburb of Rathmines. This place is so hip that the only music they allow has to derive from that of a natural vocal origin. aka, singing acapella, spoken poetry or the general chitter chatter that sets the vibe on any hipster drinking night. Which is every night. Your liver doesn't wait for you, so why wait for your liver eh? That's right! So we down a couple of bottles and next thing we know we've drawn with chalk on the walls surrounding our table. Nyree wrote several times in the vein of school punishment lines, "ACOUSTIC GUITARS RUIN PARTIES!". I drew several pairs of deck shoes each with their own names, e.g. Deck Of Cards, DeckSavers, Shoe For Foo's and Nike Air Decks. After that we're on a makeshift stage drunkenly trying to do a spoken word version of "The Artist" and reciting our favorite poem, Hippopotamus by Fran Bell. (See below). We made friends with some band called Magic Finger after we bet them in a shot contest and by the time it got to midnight or the hipping hour as we call it, we had moved on with our new bessie friends to meet their manager in the VIP section of NIGHTCLUB. A who's who hang out and fake tan smelling dungeon of dance music. We all hit the smoking area cause even if Norman Cook, Underworld or David Guetta himself was playing, no hipster ever hits the dance floor in a club full of people dancing to dance music. And no hipster would listen to any of those main stream DJ's anyway. We smoke copious amounts of cigarettes, drink whiskey and ginger ale all while making no eye contact with anyone who's not in our designated group of friends. Even then, Nyree and I manage to not look at the band when they are taking to us. We leave the club at about 4 in the morning, go back and unlock our fixies from outside This Is Not A Bar, cycle to a house party where we stay for about one minute because we refuse to get off our bikes to go indoors and the girl who owns the house won't let us stay on our bikes and cycle around the house. Spoil sport. We hit an all night supermarket, buy two loafs of brown bread and two bottles of organic juice which contain peach, mango, and orange. So we are already starting fresh by getting 3 out of our 5 a day. Drink them while cycling and doing zig zag's across the empty city centre streets and finishing up in Phoenix park were we spend the good part of an hour trying to feed the deers frolicking through the fields. Hipsters care about nature. We didn't succeed. Then we went to a cafe and ate the vegan breakfast with bacon on the side. I said it before and i'll say it again, a hungover hipster is a happy hipster!

PictureFest 09 and the headline act is Sona Yergainharsian. Boom!


Playful protest - this gang of jokesters didn't like us driving down their path in Uzbekistan so they surrounded the car (but left about a 2 meter radius around us in case we got cocky) and then stopped. We were there for bleedin ages. We had to reverse out and go another way. Hilarious!


What better way to abandon your whole world and drive yourself, in an ambulance 10,000 miles away into deepest Mongolia. You abandon everything, people, civilisation, communication, and what a joy it is!!

Sona, your a lil hipster! I know it because I'm looking at these photo's and they are damn good! Danke, big schtyle!

P.S. We never found the band's manager in NIGHTCLUB. Supposedly he answers by the name of Frank and wears sunglasses indoors and always has a pink Ralph Lauren shirt on. If you see him say hi. And that the band he manages are crap.

P.P.S Magic Finger aren't crap. Their name is though.

P.P.P.S. 

Hippopotamus 
by
Fran Bell

Oh who am I
to say to you, the world,
that I am better than you.

Oh who am I
to say to you, the world,
that I please the eye more.

Oh who am I
to say to you, the world,
that my clothes fit to perfection
and my skin is smooth as silk
and my mouth speaks more clearly
than the rest of the common ilk.

Hark the day!
Hark mine eye
for I am but a hipster
watching the day
hipping by.

Fran Bell. Bruges. 1684.

Nyree & Brian
Hipsters we met and liked

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

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