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Bouncer Catalogues Hipster Society at Casanova Lounge 

Wednesday, Jul 17 2013
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Bacon is the New Vampire

Chickens are the new potbellied pigs. Bacon is the new vampire. But more on that later.

It's been a long time since I have felt the pull of a gen-u-ine S.F. hipster bar. By the way, there's a difference between a hipster bar and a bar that hipsters hang out at; there's also a difference between a genuine hipster and someone who is just extremely fashion-forward with a sense of irony. I'm so out of it now that I can't tell who the hipsters are anymore, but who gives a shit.

I thought I would revisit this whole scene, after months of hotel and old man bars, and the Casanova was a natural choice. It's a bar that hipsters hang out at, not the other way 'round. I suppose I make this distinction because I like everyone who works there and I have friends who DJ there too. So that's the demarcation: If the hipsters are unknown to me then they must of course be douchebags. It's not fair, I get that.

Inside the Casanova is cozy and thrift-shoppy, with '70s antiques, amber-drenched corners, and well-worn settees. It's a great place to saddle up to someone you want to get to know better; with each drink you can drift closer and closer to each other on the sofa. I of course sit at the bar, where I have had great conversations with Vietnam vets, musicians, and bike messengers.

And so it was on this eve that I was next to two gals who were discussing getting some chickens for their backyard. They said they had to move to the East Bay due to S.F. rents so they might as well do the hobby farm thing. I thought about getting chickens myself at one point, but I never actually thought it through long enough to ask myself why I would want to care for birds. I can't eat that many eggs, for one thing.

Apparently I am not the only one who never thought it fully through, because urban chickens are flooding animal shelters. Chickens are the new potsbellied pigs, only pigs shit less and aren't just a brain stem attached to two feet. I wasn't going to ruin these gals' dreams though by pointing this out. Truth be told, I don't really care about the wellbeing of chickens too much. Sure, I don't like seeing them squished into cages with no room to move (or beak-less, if those KFC rumors were ever true) but in the grand scheme of things I cannot get caught up in the welfare of bantams when there are so many pigeons that need my love and support.

"What do you feed them?" one of the women mused, apparently unaware of something called chicken feed. I was about to interject because yeah, my big plan of staying out of things was set to expire, but then two dudes came in and one of them kissed the prettier girl and the other one just got a hug. So the prettier girl really doesn't need chickens to fill the giant hole in her life like the "6" on a scale of 1-10 does.

I decided to count the handlebar moustaches, which were the hipster thing the last time I paid attention, but there were zero in attendance. In fact, everyone looked pretty normal. One guy had a shirt that just said "BACON." Which brings me to my next point, class, which is that bacon is the new vampire.

Society goes through weird obsessions with entities. In the 1990s it was dinosaurs and they were everywhere, even on Chef Boyardee cans. Owls were hot a few years ago. Then vampires. Now it's bacon. Bacon is the punchline of jokes. Bacon is some maverick ingredient that hipster chefs on reality TV shows think is so trailer-trashy that it's chic. It makes sense; at the height of American's obesity epidemic, heart disease explosion, and incongruous obsession with health and fitness, bacon is punk rock. But, alas, it's also sooo 2012.

Bacon was also on this guy's shirt, as I said, though he seemed oblivious to the fact that by now it was nearing its entrance into being passé and he just looked silly.

I wish I was cool enough to predict the next Hipster Societal Entity. I thought sloths would be it there for awhile but that never caught on as I had hoped. (Like they care.) I like to think that my ripped rain jacket that came from the Burlington Coat Factory and has elasticized cuffs is so bad that it's good. I do get stared at in it, for what that's worth.

My chicken friends left me there, all alone. The bartender made what looked like a Manhattan, which I forgot to mention has also made a comeback. It makes sense that in the age of gourmet cocktailing, hipster purists would shun the new.

Yikes, so much stuff to try and keep straight. No wonder I like to go to hotel bars; the only thing to think about there is whether or not the attractive woman next to you is a hooker or not.

The DJ began to play Big Star. Now that's timeless.

About The Author

Katy St. Clair

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