La Poulette

Tastes like chicken.

Monday, October 17, 2005

Not that there's anything wrong with it, Jerry.

On my way from work, I come across a human specimen that could only be described as a type. It is not gender specific and is surprisingly ubiquitous in this day and age, although - for reasons yet to be determined - one can find an unusually high concentration of its ilk in the town of Ljubljana, Slovenia. I call it The Crunchy Granola Birkenstock/Flip-Flop Loving Hippie Throwback. It's easily recognisable by its penchant for ponchos (bought in a market in Peru) and all things hemp. The look is ethnic style meets Bob Marley, for a set of dirty dreadlocks represent a highly desirable fashion accessory in its Crunchy Granola world. Despite the nubile age group of the majority of its members, a keen observer would be led to believe that procreation is not high on its list of priorities, for it works the asexual look with meticulous care, as it cruises about its urban environment on its preferred mode of transportation - a customised beat-up vintage bicycle. Where feeding habits are concerned Crunchy Granola is all about vegetarian market produce and organic home-grown weed. Its holiday destination choices are a tad trickier for the modern anthropologist to understand, however. In the Crunchy Granola world a holiday is not about leisure but about the search for new spiritual dimensions. It spends a lot of time-off in Amsterdam, but don't be fooled, this is only a holiday in a I've-come-to-research-the-latest-trends-in-organic-home-grown-marijuana-production kind of way - the westernised nature of any European city is otherwise looked-down upon. But no Crunchy Granola is considered a true card carrying member of the Hippie Throwback Club until it has made the obligatory pilgrimage to India (the Poulette is not currently on a diet, but could someone pass the barf bag regardless, please?). No need to expound upon the reasons, the added value of the destination being, however, that it can simultaneously stock up on bags of incense, Hindi poetry and Zen attitude.
Crunchy Granola and Poulette don't have much to say to each other. But the Poulette knows that Crunchy Granola Birkenstock/Flip Flop Loving Hippie Throwbacks need love too and feels it is the least she can do to send it this postcard and refer it to the wisdom of the Manolo, who will perhaps have more success in enlightening it on matters of the dreaded poncho and the cringeworthy Birkenstock.

6 Comments:

  • At 10/19/2005 09:32:00 AM, Blogger Michael M. said…

    I had to endure half a decade surrounded by these folks, thanks to the fact that most universities are infested with them.

    And, yes, I'm still bitter about it.

     
  • At 10/19/2005 06:50:00 PM, Blogger crni said…

    There are very few at Georgia Tech. I guess it takes a nerdy engineering school to get rid of them. That, and math.

    Poulette, you are so right about the abundance of these folks in Ljubljana. What the hell's up with that?

    Obligatory link: Unshaven hippy goddesses.

     
  • At 10/19/2005 08:24:00 PM, Blogger Poulette said…

    My LJ. high school was a breeding ground for 'em and worse still, my GBF, the Rainbow Warrior, is a semi member! You think YOU'RE bitter, Michael?

    Crni, I'm guessing that your link is a joke of such subtle, refined sarcasm that my limited intellectual capacity isn't QUITE capable of grasping it... zat it?

     
  • At 10/20/2005 04:16:00 AM, Blogger crni said…

    Damnit, what happened to my link. Stupid Bill.

    Here we go, Unshaven hippie goddesses.

     
  • At 10/20/2005 10:55:00 AM, Anonymous rainbow warrior said…

    OMG, the bushes on them women!! One word - brasilian!

     
  • At 10/28/2005 11:18:00 PM, Blogger sgazzetti said…

    I once observed a conversion. Preppy tight-ass grad school office mate started dating the guy we called "Hempen Bob" and within a few weeks she was in the not un-stomach-churning process of converting herself into his hemp-luvin' goddess. Her teaching and punctuality suffered, oddly. One morning she came into the office ten minutes late for teaching her freshman writing class and, being a tad disheveled, begged me for a comb. As I was without one (I usually take care of such things at home) I offered a fork borrowed from the cafeteria. She avidly "combed" her nappy dreads with it, and I never ate ramen with it again. Call me up-tight, but I can't stand the taste of patchouli mingled with hoisin sauce.

     

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