The Winnipeg Hipster Index

I want to tell you my favourite jokes of the summer (which I stole from 2 Chris friends...read on):

1.) How did the hipster burn his mouth?

A: He was eating pizza way before it was cool.

(thank you Chris Yorke)

2.) How many hipsters does it take to screw in a light bulb?

A: Well, it's a pretty obscure number, you've probably never heard of it.

(thank you Chris Campbell)

Trisha and I have been occasionally bringing up the topic of what Otto is going to be like when he's older. It's mostly me who's bringing it up:

"Do you think he'll be funny? I bet he'll be funny. Unless he's serious, but that's fine, too. Maybe he'll be really into the Smiths or something. Do you think he'll watch Curb Your Enthusiasm with me? What if he doesn't like Curb Your Enthusiasm? How old do you have to be to watch Curb Your Enthusiasm? You know what, we better never show him Curb Your Enthusiasm."

The poor kid JUST learned how to open his eyes. He's only known how to breathe for about 10 days and already I'm ruminating about his what his favourite novel might be. I'm trying to stop.

Ironically, there's a big part of me that doesn't even want him to grow up. I'm already noticing how much he's changed and I'm not that into it. He's not sleeping as much during the day and he's feeding a little less often. It's kind of weird, but it makes me just a little sad.

In honesty, it's not that big of deal to me, but I think it all started with a running joke during the pregnancy. There was this never ending conversation about what I would do if I had a son and he was into sports. Anyone who knows me knows I don't do sports. And suddenly I was picturing myself being dragged to a hockey arena at 6 in the morning by a Sydney Crosby wanna be (minus the concussion) in about 5 years. (By the way, I'm the only guy in Winnipeg that seems kind of indifferent about the Jets coming back. Although I am excited about new restaurants downtown.)

But this all blossomed into all the other things my kid could be. A hipster? A hippie? A punk? A jock? A nerd? A health nut? A Nickleback fan? Honestly, I'm happy with whatever he becomes (accept the Nickleback thing) but now I'm curious to see which it's going to be.

But is he really going to be a type cast character from a '90's teen movie? I realize that's not how it works. I've been each of those things at some part in my life, and sometimes all of them to varying degrees. (except the Nickleback thing). It's all a spectrum. Right?

For instance, I used to think I was a hipster. I thought this because, in my opinion, I dressed interestingly and I listened to pretty good music. Then I met real hipsters and I quickly realized I don't have the energy or foresight or organization skills to be a true hipster. (Do you know I've actually heard a conversation jump from the importance of sock and shirt colour coordination to how the current use of saxophones in modern east coast indie rock is an impressive and interesting turn of events?)

That being said, to a lot of my friends I think I am a hipster because I talk about music they've never heard of and I'm hard on them for liking Nickleback (and I wear ridiculous glasses).

Let me boil it down to a simple example. I read pitchfork.com. To half of my friends (the non-hipsters) that makes me a hipster because it's somewhat pretentious and kind of weird. To the other half of my friends (the hipsters) it makes me lame and predictable because pitchfork is not nearly pretentious enough.

On the scale of Winnipeg hipsterdom it probably boils down to something like this:

Maybe? I don't know, it's pretty early in the morning. By the way, I really like Parlour Coffee.

Basically, what I'm getting at, is I hope Otto is balanced, but even more importantly, I hope he's happy. Hipster, punk, jock, or even... Nickleback fan. Sounds sappy, but, there it is.

And because I know it's going to start coming up more and more, let me address my current feelings on the whole will-he-be-a-doctor-some-day discussion. At this point in my life, let me say I hope not. That may change, and if he decides he does want to I will support him. But the day my son comes up to me and tells me he wants to wash cars or serve fries or teach water aerobics for the rest of his life, at least I know he'll never have to write this unbelievable licensing exam.

(Admission: I didn't read yesterday.)

I know the feeling, Ralph. I've got the same helpless look as you do in the first picture most of the day.