Hipocrisy.

There is nothing more sobering and horrifying than looking at oneself with a clear, objective lens. We're all familiar with the old adage, "The life unexamined is the life unlived," or some shit like that. I'd like to think that for a somewhat mature twenty-something, I've got a good grasp on who I am and what I want out of this little peephole into the world I call, my life. As an actress at heart, it is my artistic duty to be annoyingly narcissistic. However, taking pictures of oneself constantly with a camera phone and trying on a weeks worth of outfits (just to get the right cardigan to wear to the corner bodega), doesn't necessarily mean that I understand the inner workings of my being.

I have company arriving next week and as I organized my room today preparing "The Chelsea Hotel," I noticed something. As I sifted through my CD collection that consists of many obscure indie bands, folded my t-shirts that have either been purchased at concerts or have ironic sayings embroidered on them, alphabetized my bookshelf from Douglas Adams, Jack Kerouac, Chuck Klostermann, aalllll the way down to Kurt Vonnegut, put away my Michel Gondry DVD's, and tripped over my black and white Converse sneakers... I realized the sad and alarming truth; I'm a fucking hipster.

I live for record stores with snooty clerks, watching horrible movies with a smug attitude, can recognize a quote from any episode of Monty Python, Mr.Show, Kids in the Hall or The Simpsons. I can easily be caught at a cafe or vegan restaurant in the East Village reading Spin or some other magazine in that category. I once took a political profile test in high school and was dubbed farther to the left than Jesse Jackson (In other words, I'm an off the charts bleeding-heart liberal). To top it all off, I'm documenting this moment of self-discovery ON MY BLOG! All trademark antics of a hip, hipster, hippity-ipster.

I know this isn't exactly something to be ashamed of, but it is kind of like being the pimply faced Trekkie getting caught by his mother masturbating to The Empire Strikes Back on his high definition, big-screen TV. Oh the blasphemy of it all!

Remember the flick, SLC Punk? If you haven't seen it, it's basically just two hours of Utah born punks bitchin' and moanin' about mormons, their parents, and posers. (Actually, it was a good movie, that was just my snarky hipster attitude preventing me from giving it the appreciation it deserves.) At the very end, Matthew Lillard's character looks right into the camera during a moment of self-reflection and confesses, "You know what, all along I was just a fucking poser." Yeah, I feel ya' Lillard.

Hypocrisy is something that runs deep in the veins of all humanity so I know I'm not alone in this, thank Jeebus. However, it is rather humbling to realize that one of the characteristics you mock so frequently in others also happens to be one of the characteristics you so boldly host. If one were to read many of my previous blog entries, they would read page after page of me shredding the hipster aesthetic and attitude to itsy-bitsy pieces.

*Sigh* This picture says more about this problem than words ever could:


The only thing missing is a pair of black-framed glasses perched on my smarmy looking face.

While am at it, why don't I throw in this apropos "Onion" headline:

Two Hipsters Angrily Call Each Other 'Hipster'

Radio Killed the Radio Star

Today began like any other day off from work. I savored the luxury of sleeping in (a hefty dose of NyQuil made that very doable), ingested a massive bowl of oatmeal accompanied with coffee, began to organize my massive heap of laundry to do for the week, made my bed, and clipped my toenails. Everyone knows that the best thing to accompany menial tasks like that is music. I received the unfortunate diagnosis last week from the "geniuses" at the Apple Store on Fifth avenue that my ipod is indeed dead. This is an unspeakably tragic event in the life of Chelsea. My rides on the subway have become far more unbearable than one could ever imagine, walking from point A to point B on this dense little island is more sobering than I'd like it to be, and I until I replace ipod #1, I'll be unable to listen to its shuffle on my wi-fi stereo speaker.

Due to the grief that I've endured from this tragic death, my head hasn't exactly been in the right place. When one is frazzled with emotional anguish and a strong sense of loss, they tend to lose touch with logical thought. Ergo, I did something unspeakably dangerous today. More dangerous than tap-dancing on the tip of the Empire State building, having unprotected sex with Courtney Love, snorting lines of coke off of a toilet seat in the bathroom of a Ray's Pizzeria, or screaming racial epithets in the middle of a NAACP convention. I...Chelsea Alana Ward...attempted to listen to FM radio on this grim, grim Saturday in March.

I'd like to think that I'm not a pretentious music snob, but considering I'm a twenty-something that was brought up on The Beatles, Stones, and Kinks- I'm bound to have a few snobbish views of organized sound. As soon as I heard (on the distorted reception spewing out from the speaker of my Sears alarm-clock/radio) that Goddammed, pile of crap reprise of Joni Mitchell's "Paved Paradise" I was ready to cut off my ears with a rusty pair of child-safety scissors. I loved that song once upon a time, you know, when Joni Mitchell birthed it. I don't know the name of the douche-bag that sings that song now and don't care to, but if I ever run into him in life.... I'm going to handcuff him, throw him in a closet, put a ball-gag in his mouth, headphones in his ears, a walk-man in his hands, and a cassette tape of his shitty song playing over and over again. I'll unlock my closet door when I hear the sound of his head exploding like that dude in the flick Scanners.

This was the first song I heard, mind you. I switched the station as quickly as the dial could move and nestled on a satisfactory oldies station. Music from the 70's, 80's, and 90's. The fact that those eras are considered "oldies" now makes my spleen shoot out of me with shock. Perhaps my definition of "oldies" is askew because I consider Frank Sinatra, Buddy Holly, Billie Holiday, Muddy Waters, The Beatles, The Velvet Underground, and anything in that vein all to be acceptable examples. The only reason I stayed tuned into the station was because they made a good first impression by playing David Bowie's, "Ziggy Stardust." Somewhat of an oldie, I suppose; but really, who cares? It's Bowie and he rules more than Rome back in the days of Gladiator fights.

The thing that disturbed me most about this whole sour audio experience is the undeniable and well-known truth that the music industry sucks the white off of a golf-ball these days. There is good music out there, however, it isn't being marketed to the masses and one has to dig around to find it like it's a lost sock on laundry day.

I could go on a long, trite, and verbose diatribe about how shows like "American Idol" and pop-whores like Brittany Spears and Justin Timberlake are a malignant tumor in the ear of the general public, but what's the use? I'm a big believer in the pendulum theory, and because of that believe that soon enough people will get sick of listening to horrid remakes of once-great songs playing every time they step into an elevator, are placed on hold while on the phone with their bank, go grocery shopping, or *gasp* turn on their radio because they can't listen to their ipod. There will be an overwhelming revolution, ooooooh yes indeedy! It'll involve rooftop performances with four British dudes, massive festivals with patchouli-doused hippies festering in the sun and groovin' in an amphitheater, and Guerilla jam sessions on every street corner in the world...

...In the meantime, I have to separate my brights from my whites. Peace out, y'all.