Sometime around 2012, the hipster thing reared its ugly head.
Two years earlier, I had moved with the family to Rochester, New York, tattooed metaphorically with the word success.
The cookie-cutter house in the suburbs simply sealed the deal.
That’s when, according to the script, I was scheduled to shift my focus.
First, of course, would be the car.
And next, as I was told, would come the country club.
Instead, on a misty day about a decade and a half ago, I found myself hiding in a musty corner.
The place was called the Record Archive, and I had just landed on a bin of $1 vinyl. It was next to the T-shirts, which at that point in my trajectory fit rather well.
A few years later, the place would add beer and wine, all for no membership fee.
Needless to say, the hourglass of life had been flipped, and there was no stopping the hipster sand.
The hair started to change color. Some landed on the floor.
By necessity, T-shirts were replaced with sweatshirts.
The Post Malone song “Circles” began to remind me of my eyes.
And most importantly, the shorts gained pockets.
The toddler, well, he ended up taller than me—in Middle Tennessee.
That’s where, sometime in 2026, this story really picked up speed.
The new chapter began with a one-stop flight followed by a Waymo ride.
I said bye to the imaginary driver and took a look around the capital of Tennessee. Eyes closed, I visualized the wave of economic uplift, and suddenly, I embraced adulthood.
I began to snatch up property and talk insurance, equity, and rental income.
Then, to display relaxation, I dabbled in label-approved country music and the Gulch, adjusting my blazer to make sure Nashvillians knew what was up.
Just kidding.
Here’s what really happened.
I took a look around the capital of Tennessee, realized my left pocket had a hole in it, and marveled at the brilliance of having backup pockets just below that one.
I proudly moved the pen I had just bought from Third Man Records to secure territory, praising Jesus—make that Jack White.
After stepping into a honky-tonk and absorbing a few tunes, I had a nagging sense that I could do better.
I remembered the alternative newsweekly I had seen earlier:
Because Nashville is so much more than honky-tonks and bachelorettes…
And, like a good hipster, I crossed the Cumberland River to East Nashville.
I nabbed a slice at Five Points Pizza for $4.25 and washed it down with an IPA.
I eagerly made my way to the next stop, one that, it could be said, was written. It had to be a record store, and it had to be called Grimey’s.
I hit the checkout hard—the proud progressive that I am—with a retro music mag from 1987 for $1.99.
My wife, on the lookout for a different type of progress, looked at me with disgust and said, I prefer the first version.
