The Hipsters of LoveSerge Bielanko
Let’s face it: Facebook is pretty much the single biggest time-destroyer known to mankind since, I dunno, algebra?
But unlike the Dark Arithmetics, it sure is an entertaining way to chisel away at your precious fleeting days on Earth, huh?
Then: I killed one of the best hours I have killed recently. Usually, I’m hit and run. ten seconds here, maybe six minutes there.
But not this time.
For here, my friends, is a one of those internet repositories of awesomeness.
Like some musty museum basement: this sight is dripping with treasures. But unlike those locked-away treasure troves deep beneath the city streets, Dads are the Original Hipsters is a wide-open free-for-all of old Polaroids and snapshots of the coolest guys who ever walked around on this icy rock:
I’m talking the dads who wore mustaches and drove muscle cars and looked like a villain from Starsky and Hutch. I’m talking the dads who posed, squatting, for a picture out in the summertime backyard with a kid on each hairy knee, and a can of PBR barely visible in his left hand.
I’m talking dads with dangling cigarettes and fat dead bluefish.
I’m talking dads with State Cop sunglasses and bandannas and Marlboro Man skin.
I’m talking a dad with a little girl up on his shoulder/a wood-paneled station wagon back in the drive/and a hibachi on a red brick wall, still smoking all these years later.
Or, maybe those are just my memories getting churned up here. But, at the very least, the pictures hear speak the very same language as the ones a lot of us have in a shoebox, if we’re lucky.
It makes me sad and angry, too. After I lost a lot of them in our recent house fire, I’m hoping I still have some memories of a guy like these guys; I hope I can somehow find some shots of a dad frozen in time, looking super cool/super hip, but not even trying at all.
I hope I can find a few of those Fotomat originals from 1976 of my dad, out smoking in the sunshine/drinking his beers of long ago.
Unlike a lot of the desperate try-to-be-quirky internet snake oil out there, Dads are the Original Hipsters, despite it’s name, seems to drive right past Irony Street without much of a glance. I don’t even know if it’s meant to be that way, but if you’re like me, after you look at a dozen or so of these pics you realize: this place has some real heart, some real soul working for it.
Do yourself the favor.