Hippé Neuveau (Earth Lover, Man Hater)

I feel like backhanding a four-earringed bearded guy and his sweatpantalooned, Birkenstocker girlfriend right about now.

This morning I went to Whole Foods on 65th & Roosevelt to grab some grub on the way to work. It was about ten minutes to 8, but people were walking in at their leisure. I grabbed a parking spot near the door, managing to squeeze my car, defiantly, into a spot that the 2003 Honda Accord Coupe behind me was likely trying to disallow by parking "almost" too close to the stop sign. I could parallel park a riverboat in a bathtub, BoogerFinger, don't test my chest.

I throw the Cirkus in park and glance up to notice a person glaring at me, seated inside Whole Foods, mouth opening and closing quickly, dominating a conversation about masculine devils and how Ani is all you should ever listen to TOFU TOFU GODDESS VAGINA FULL OF LOVE FOR THE EARTH AS LONG AS IT'S NOT MALE. Maybe she was singing, I was three panes and 60 feet away, point taken. So I grab my mobile phone, and step out of the car, glancing around at all of the people standing outside. There are people inside... and people outside... so the store's open and these folks are standing around in the 37 degree weather?

Whole Foods specializes in natural, organic foods and products. These foods are believed to be healthier for all organisms they come in contact with, as well as for the environments they represent, from agricultural to retail. And I'm all for a store that charges a few cents more here and there for something that isn't mass produced, and selling bean curd, kefir, and chicken meat that were fed, bred, and killed humanely. However, many people wear their Vegetarian Badge like, well, a badge of honor, snootily reaching for a 3 gallon jug of Odwalla, looking about to see who's watching them. That's when they lock eyes with me, ingesting Emergen-C the way it was intended: through a kelp straw, nasally railing pack after pack until I can see Ciscoe in the Free Range Tofurkey. It's all about your health. Check out Ciscoe's "Recipes" link.

Which is why I was laughing when I saw 20-something 20-somethings standing outside, breathing white into the morning shade, 2/3rds respiration, 1/3rd Big Tobacco Cigarette smoke. The "ultra hip" greenjeans were loading their chambers with butted smokes, nobody was rolling their own in defense of the environment and "little tobacky." To each their own, and I owned my laughter. Too much irony in the water.

After grabbing a few items, I make for one of the 2 open registers, each one snaking a dredlocked line of 6-10 people with as much of their real hair as cat hair on their fleece. I'm getting looks, too, at my shirt. It's a retro-western style, black with a light blue yoke on the shoulders and cuffs, people staring at me with frumped if not grunty faces on. Nearly every one of them is wearing sandals (gawd), socks (double gawd), fleece pants, fleece vest, sweatshirt, scarf, and a knit cap. And I'm being looked at funny? Apaprently they'd never seen someone who doesn't give a shit how much fiber and/or pot brownies they ingest during a Red Dwarf marathon, the cowboy shirt guy just wants his water and almonds and an escape route.

On the way out I lock eyes again with the staring mouth-gaping parking voyeur. She has a weird look on her face, like she suspects me of using the last of her Bert's Bee's Labial Moisturizer. Her hair is short, face free of makeup, blemishes and all, eyes burning, hands stuffed into zip-up sweatsuit jacket. As I near her I ask "Yes?"
She says "Nothing. Nice shirt."
As I start to thank her, feeling a jerk, her whispered word slides in...
"... poseur."

Thank you Whole Foods, Organic Agriculture, Rainbow Stickers, Hemp clothing makers, and Ani! Your peaceful ways have created judgmental, prejudicial, self-righteous burnouts with less style than their waning substance. Grab your labial balm and take a seat in the back of the Vanagon, we're going to KFC, lovers. Only bludgeoned meat can cure this.
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My Non-Funny Blog.