Well, have you?

Have you felt your knees buckle, your body crumble?

Harry Houdini died from a punch in the gut. No escaping that.

I’ve been working on our next gig poster, for our show at the Deluxe November 27th…

Here’s what I’ve got so far, as usual, it might be finished, it might not…

Some Coldplay cases are more blatant than others.  Some seem like they should be obvious, yet no evidence has yet been produced.

Now, I’m a product of the preceeding reputation of my generation—

ie, I’m a slacker. I’m a big fan of finding the evidence, already wrapped up in a neat little package.

But this one has somehow flown under the radar…

This one has been bugging me longer than Coldplay’s ripping off (insert band here)…

So I did it myself, just for you…and my own pompous sense of self-satisfaction. (I just gave myself a high-five, incidentally)

I’m neither a sound nor video editor by any stretch of the imagination, but I think this gets the proof out on the table, as clear and obvious as if it were a made-for-TV court room drama starring the once great Eric Roberts…

So without further adieu, I present Coldplay Case: Dream Killers…

Aw, snap. You just got Coldplayed, Killers…

My body was still vibrating from two little white pills with the silhouette of a dove stamped on each of them, which I had digested shortly after entering an underground dance club specializing in “Jungle” music—and ecstasy. Youth made me indestructible, and a little stupid. Yes, if my friends jumped off Tower Bridge, I probably would too.

I left straight from the clubs onto a train headed south from Victoria Station as the sun rose and an army of half-stoned kids staggered from the dark of the club into the light of the city morning.

London’s mornings smelled different than those of St. Louis. Sure, you could still smell bus and car fumes, but something was different.

They didn’t smell like American bus fumes.

People still went to bakeries for their bread in London, and a stroll down any city street on any morning bore the smell of rising dough, mixed in somehow, with hops and barley.

The buzz of the city was somehow peaceful.

Maybe it was because I had just gone nine hours without a cigarette, and my two-pack-a-day lungs were finally visiting flavor country.

Whatever the reason, I felt no jet lag, and I felt no culture shock—just a strange level of comfort in my surroundings that I hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Stan and I stuck out like the American tourists we were as we entered the general London populace from underground.

They say New York is about two years behind London in fashion and trend; St. Louis is about five years behind New York.

As we trekked through the city in search of our youth hostile, backpacks on, we inadvertently became the great American cliché; running away to Europe to find ourselves like so many wide-eyed, sorely optimistic twenty-somethings had before.

Fourteen years ago today my best friend and I landed in London. We had just moved there with little plan and less money. It had to be done, as we liked to say:

It would be rude not to.

I was determined to make it over there. I didn’t tell anybody I was even going, so they couldn’t try to talk me out of it. Rationale is different when you’re twenty-one.

Moving over there was, perhaps, the best decision I ever made. It shaped the person I am now.

So I figured I’d post this one again, even though it can be found lurking in the archives…It’s the start of a short work of fiction loosely based on the experience…some moments more closely than others, but I’ll never tell you which…I figured I’d repost it, as I revisit, and attempt to find a plot and an end…

So here we go, Post Cards from the Indestructable Boy…Volume 1…

More to come…

In honor of the holiday, one of my favorites…

New posts are coming…It’s just a matter of determining where I’ll be posting them…

Rest assured, there are plenty of useless, mildly disturbing, somewhat touching and potentially entertaining things waiting for you just around the corner—like an unknown assailant with a tube sock full of quarters…

If it were actually like this, I might have enjoyed it a bit more…

He lead our country through civil war. He is the great emancipator, and considered the greatest American President by historians.

And now, 200 years after his birth, he is a (Gothic/Americana) rock star.

In honor of Abraham Lincoln’s 200th birthday, my band, Strawfoot, has taken Lincoln’s words and turned them into a dark song about a man slowly going mad.

Lincoln was a complicated man, he fought a lot of demons. He was also a phenomenal poet.

One of his poems in particular, But Here’s an Object More of Dread really jumped out at me. It was simultaneously ominous and beautiful. It was perfect for Strawfoot.

But Here’s an Object More of Dread was written by Lincoln in 1846, upon returning to his childhood home.

In a letter to close friend, William Johnston, Lincoln wrote:

Included in the letter was the poem But Here’s an Object More of Dread. This being his 200th birthday, it seemed only fitting to bring his poem to life, and put it on our upcoming CD, How We Prospered.

Here it is…I hope we did it justice…the video is just a bunch of our promo shots thrown together to accompany the music…all of the band photography was taken by Marshall Gibson…He’s one of the best at what he does…

I’m no film maker…so if you can do better, please, by all means have at it…we’ll even email you the MP3…

Our CD will be available Halloween.

“You’ve gotta see it from my point of view,” I said as we walked the perimeter of the park. “It’s the production of it all.”

My friend Cass put his hands in his pockets and said nothing. We had been friends long enough for him to understand my reverence for the dramatic pause. I took a drag of my cigarette and exhaled slowly. It was the end of summer, and the weather was sitcom-perfect.

“Don’t get me wrong,” I continued. “I like games. I’m a fun guy.”
“Yeah, Coupland, you’re a regular mushroom.”

I stopped walking, as Cass shuffled on for a few steps.

“What the hell does that mean?”
“Fun guy. Fungi.”

Blank stare.

“Fungi? Nothing?”
“As I was saying, I like games. There’s nothing wrong with kickball itself, it’s all these tube sock wearing, mustached hipsters in cutoff jeans shorts that have taken over the sport. It’s like a bad Ben Stiller movie. They’ve ruined it for the rest of us.”

On most weeknights the park hosted softball games. Beer leagues, Corporate leagues, Old-College-Friends-Who-Just-Can’t-Let-Go leagues.

Sunday afternoons, however, belonged to kickball.

At first pass, the idea of kickball sounds great. A trip back in time to those carefree years of the voluntary exclusion and sadomasochism called recess. The ball is the same textured red rubber; it has that same hollow sound when kicked, the same slap to skin when caught—it even smells the same. The physical requirements are minimal in comparison to most adult sports.

But then the hipsters came in and ruined it. One minute, it’s friends at a B-B-Q drinking too much while trying to relive their youth—the next, teams with ironic names have formed with sponsors and umpires.

Hipsters ruined irony for the rest of us.

“That’s an awfully skewed assessment,” Cass said as we walked past diamond 7a.

The Slutty Unicorns V. Blarney Fife (sponsored by an Irish pub, of course)

“Just because you don’t like them, doesn’t mean they ruined kickball.”
“They ruined it for me,” I responded, flicking my cigarette in their general direction. “And it’s not just kickball—they’re everywhere.”
“Everyone’s everywhere, Coupland. You’d have to be a recluse to avoid everyone you hate…because you hate everyone.”
“I don’t hate everyone, Cass my friend…just those who deserve my scorn.”

We continued walking as a skinny, semi-androgynous kid with a tailored filth, emo haircut and low cut Chuck Taylors walked up to bat.

“All that hate’s going to burn you up one day, Coup.”
“Summer’s almost over,” I said with a grin. “Gotta stay warm somehow.”

A loud cheer emanated from Diamond 8b just ahead, distracting us from our conversation.

Grass Kickers V.  Jazz Hands

Truth be told, it wasn’t just the hipsters who were destroying kickball. A more sinister element to the sport had infiltrated the scene in recent months; washed up soccer players complete with coaches and a game face. They were very dedicated to the official rules and regulations—they were there to compete.

They were the bullies of the league, in search of domination over the weaker of the species. We called them “Kickball Nazis”.

They weren’t in it to have fun. They were in it to win it. The coach would pace up and down the first base line, barking at the team. The players all wore their old soccer jerseys and equipment: shin pads, goalie gloves, cleats—they took it far too seriously.

But the Kickball Nazis could kick my ass, so my rage and blame always went back to the hipsters. Emaciated kids wearing girl’s jeans and bulky glasses were a lot easier to hate.

And they were everywhere.

My band, Ultimate Montage, couldn’t play a venue in town that wasn’t corrupted by the PBR swilling heathens, out in numbers, more concerned with their appearance than the music. Ultimate Montage was a band dedicated to playing nothing but the inspirational songs found in montage scenes of 80’s movies. We always closed the show with “You’re the Best” from the tournament montage in The Karate Kid.

My local neighborhood coffee shop and favorite cocktail bar had been over run as well. It was maddening.

We kept walking, the backdrop of heated battles filling the air as our soundtrack.

“You know, Coupland,” Cass started as we cut through the grass between Diamond 12a and 12b, “Some people might call you a hipster.”
“I’m no hipster. I’m not hip enough,” I answered dryly.
“Think about it. Bulky art-geek glasses? Check.”
“I have to see. Glasses are kind of mandatory.”
“Slacker haircut, manufactured to look messy? Check.”
“It’s not manufactured, it really is messy.”
“Indie band with an ironic name and theme? Check and check.”
“It’s not ironic if you lived though the 80’s, Cass.”
“The only differences between you and them are their fashion sense and about ten years…and a crapload of denial.”
“25-year-old Coupland would have wanted to kick their asses just as much as 35-year-old Coupland does.”
“Tell it to the judge,” Cass said as an over enthusiastic Kickball Nazi launched a ball directly at the back of a mesh-shirt clad hipster’s head, connecting with a resounding *thud*.

Cass’ assessment hung over my head like a dark cloud as we walked on in silence.

“Did it ever occur to you that you’re threatened by them?” Cass asked, pulling me from my brooding solitude.
“Threatened?”
“Threatened.”
“This should be good. Please, Cass, continue.”
“These hipsters are essentially a younger version of you. Fashion aside, they’re just like we were when we were in our 20’s.”
“How’s that?” I asked, lighting another cigarette.
“Their future is still ahead of them. They still have dreams yet to be squashed by time and responsibility. It’s wide open for them.”

An errant kickball rolled over to us.

“A little help?” a Kickball Nazi barked at us from Diamond 14a.

Alcoholics Unanimous V. Sugar Crash

Cass kicked the ball back before elaborating further.

“We used to be the same way. You thought you were going to be the next Annie Lebowitz, now you work at the Sears Portrait Studio.”
“You’re no better off, Cass. You sit in a cubicle all day updating spread sheets.”
“That’s my point exactly. I thought I was going to be a race car driver, or an astronaut.”
“You were a communications major in college.”
“Irrelevant. The point is, our big dreams are gone. We have mortgages and responsibilities to concern ourselves with now. These kids still have a chance at being something better, and it’s eating you up inside.”
“I’m going to call bullshit,” I said as we neared the final diamond in the park. “They’re just a bunch of pretentious kids jumping onto whatever trend comes by. They have no respect for their elders, and no clue what it means to be responsible. They don’t threaten me, they sicken me.”
“Deny it all you want. These hipsters are nothing more than your own little personal Ghosts of Christmas Past. You hate them because they’re you ten years ago.”
“I’m no hipster,” I mumbled in a half-defeated tone as we arrived at Diamond 17.
“You’re totally a hipster,” Cass responded. I pulled off my sweatshirt and began stretching out.

My team, Sweep the Leg, Johnny, was about to play our league rivals, The Swayze Crazies.

Fucking hipsters.