And While I’m On the Topic of Peach Pies: Pop Tarts

  I don’t know why, but for some reason I’ve been Jonesing for a poptart. Not for the somewhat passable after the fall of western society S’more variety, but a fruit one, in particular blueberry. It seems that for the past year or so I have wanted one at odd times, after a run, post coital bliss, while watching Perfect Strangers. However, it never occurs to me to buy the things when I am at the grocery store. Leaving this craving unanswered, meaning it is one craving. Not these cravings, which implies that I have satisfied the craving and have had others.

  For those of you sheltered enough to somehow not know what a poptart is, they are tarts for people who lost their taste buds in some horrific explosion or for people who thought fifty year old preserves would go great between communion wafers.

  Poptarts are made from a pie crust like product that started out as more paste than dough. In the middle of this, bread pocket, is this near dehydrated jam stuff. If one springs for the deluxe box, there will even be some completely unsatisfying frosting on top.

  As I’ve alluded to, they are dry. I swear to google that the recipe for these things had to be rejected from the U.S. space program back in the sixties for being ever so slightly too moist. Go ahead and wikipedia it, I am a little too close for such an off the cuff remark.

 Of course, one could actually opt to put the poptarts in a toaster until they – as their name clearly states – pop. At which point consumers of hot poptarts should exercise caution, as freshly toasted poptarts will almost certainly scorch the tongue. Leaving a trail of destruction and smoldering taste buds that are unable to taste anything. Which could be a boon since the consumer is about to eat a poptart. It may also make no difference to them as, they are about to eat a poptart. Which is a sign that they aren’t using their tongue’s taste capacitors for the power of good or anything other than going to Wendy’s for some high-falutin square patty burger eatin’. So the consumer’s taste is non-applicable in the first place.

   Go ahead, put the poptarts  in the toaster. They may give the impression of being moist upon exiting, but they may also singe facial hair. If these molten bastards existed more than six hundred years ago, they would have been flung over castle walls. Bursting grass shit huts into flames and covering poor peons with incredibly hot and painfully sticky poptart innards. Thankfully, we only have to eat these things. Fortunately, I don’t have any in the house.

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Hipster, The Realization.

  That word, “hipster.” So current, so derogatory. Everyone seems to hate hipsters. No one seems to fraternize with them. Hipsters are kind of like Nickelback fans. I don’t know any on a personal level, but somehow the subculture manages to thrive. I’ve never identified myself as being a hipster. Yet somehow, and ironically so, the hipster motif  has somewhat aligned with my own.

  That’s right, hipsters have been created in my image. I am a god! Black framed glasses, flannel shirts, and a large beard are three of my physical traits commonly found in the hipster visual bible. Its a good look. I have been doing the look for years, decades in some cases. I can see why they would incorporate it. Plus, I get to reap the windfall and go to cool restaurants and bars. I fit right in.

  That is, until they look down at my boots. That is when they realize that, not only are they not vagabond student approved, but my jeans are boot cut. Not skinny, no cuff. The jig is up! I have to say something super cool. Perhaps I bring up an amazing new band I just discovered or just announce that if I wore skinny jeans, I would look like a light bulb. Not those silly LED or CFL, but a good old fashioned incandescent bulb. The more handmade, the better!

  And that totally proves it. I am not a hipster. I am just a simple guy who likes to be warm and realizes that boot cut jeans were made specifically to be worn with a boot. Yes, I like art. I am employed as an artist, went to art school and the whole nine. So what if I have a soft spot for whimsical indie published books. Who doesn’t? I don’t have a vinyl collection, due to a lack of space. Yeah, I like craft beer and have even brewed a few of my own batches. Big deal! Sure, I have foodie tendencies, but who doesn’t can their own salsa and make their own stocks? I don’t have any ironic logos on my shirts, just solid colors from American Apparel. I don’t have a haircut that makes me look like a squire from Camelot. I just keep it short and combed to the side, like something out of the 1800’s.

  Oh mother stuffer! Really? I am not a hipster! Come on! They’re boot cut. Fine, I admit it! I may be a hipster, but I liked all of those things before they were cool. Oh god! I don’t see what the big deal is. At least I am cooler than you! Wait a minute, you. What about you? Sitting there. Reading my blog before anyone has heard of me. I can keep a secret if you can. Hipster.