In case you were wondering where all the fedoras were last night they were with me at the Andrew Bird concert. Apparently I didn't get a crucial memo dictating that we should wear some kind of head gear to the show. I'm in no way exaggerating when I say all but one person in the row in front of us had some type of elaborate head accessory. The best one was a bright red silk turban with a flower.
And she wasn't an 80 year old woman from Russia. She was a wee hipster lass. In addition to the greatest hat ever, she was with a dude wearing teeny tiny circular glasses who almost had a rendezvous with my fists of fury. The reason for that being that he told my companion to keep it down as her brief conversation of 'hey, I'm going to the bathroom, be right back' was 'ruining his concert experience'. You know, the rock concert. With the loud. And the hipsters. And the loud. And did I mention it was a concert? If we had been at oh, the opera, perhaps I would have understood. But we were at a rock concert full of fedoras where the lead singer was on minute 2 of a 4 minute whistling solo.
And this is why I drink.