My Hipster Jesus

Give me that god damn tambourine!

Give it here, right now.

You can keep your jumper on, as long as you agree to take off that ridiculously cool "Reading Rainbow" t-shirt that you're far too young to even remember.

Bring me, Barrabas! Bring me, Sufjan Stevens! Bring me, Edward Sharpe!

Just bring me a shuttle bus with properly functioning A/C so the smell of Bushwick doesn't linger on my clothes all night while I've serving lobster and rack of lamb, only to remind me that I don't belong here.

Hijack the taco truck on 14th Street, and let's leave the twinks of Chelsea in our wake.

If 8th Avenue where self-esteem it wouldn't make it to midtown.

The only HERO I've met since moving to New York takes place on Sundays in the basement of the Maritime Hotel and costs $10 to get inside for the right to feel inadequate and unshapely.

I write in pen, on paper, because AT&T never drops my pen.

I always get service, even if I forget to pay my bill.

To the subject of hospitality, bill me for my laughter, bill me for my beer, bill me for the sheep that flock to me, their shepherd.

I will pay with my EBT card, my cut-off shorts and fixed speed bicycle, my in-between MTA and sidewalk sweat, and I'll put my dignity on layaway if you can still do that these days.

Here is my decree:

I will never stop loving Tom Waits.

I will always say "yes" to another if the conversation is flowing like white zinfindel from a spigot.

I will not apologize for putting a shower off one more day.

Give me that tambourine!

I have a truck to catch.