Sometimes, when you’re stuck in detention with an amateur bull rider, the thing to do is blow up a watch in a microwave.

I’m not entirely sure what I’m trying to establish by bringing up this seventh grade escapade, but it could very well have something to do with the relativity of fun.

And relativity, as we know, is largely dependent on observation.

In this regard, I consider hipsterism to be somewhat akin to quantum physics. It seems to be a real thing, but even the top experts in the field can only sort of explain the parts of it that they understand.

So I don’t exhaustively concern myself with it.

If, at some point, someone happens to observe the superposition of my character occupying the hipster state, I’m probably not going to be inclined to dispute it.

Mostly because I’m trying to spend less time occupying the stubborn-asshole state. It’s probably bad for my chakras. Or qi. Or whatever.

This is why I’m backpedaling on an idea I had about the distinction between enjoying irony and enjoying things ironically.

For a while, I was really uneasy with the concept of enjoying something—a song, a film, a phrase—ironically. I feel that irony, as a component element of something larger, can absolutely serve to enhance its enjoyablity. However, to enjoy something strictly ironically seems to me to concede that it has no genuinely enjoyable qualities whatsoever.

Now, I enjoy a lot of silly things. But I enjoy them because they’re preposterous, not because it’s preposterous for me to enjoy them. I have come to think of this as enjoying something ridiculously, rather than ironically.

I think the notion has its merits, but that doesn’t make it gospel. What works for me won’t necessarily work for everyone else.

Several weeks back, I was cruising through one of the hippest intersections in the city. At two or three in the morning, it wasn’t dead, but it was pretty laid back. Some of the only other people around were two, knit-sweater-wearing twentysomethings rocking skinny jeans and thick-rimmed glasses. They were riding double on a bicycle, with the wind vigorously massaging their unkempt locks. The look on their faces was unmistakeable.

Absolute. Essential. Joy.

Now, I don’t know these people. Probably wouldn’t recognize them if they hopped into the shower with me. But when I write their story in my mind, I have a clear understanding of their motivations.

They’ve suffered some disappointments in their time. As a result, they approach experiences, extraordinary and everyday, with an almost unhealthy level of incredulity. More often than not, they derive a comforting sense of satisfaction from the accuracy of their initial assessments.

But!

When they’re proven wrong.

They experience an ecstasy approaching the unimaginable. Burning with the fire of ten thousand watches in ten thousand microwaves.

It’s a gorgeous August day in 2010. I’m wearing shorts and sandals and sunglasses.

And that’s about it.

I’ve got a bottle of ManMix in my hand.

And a brain full of fun stuff.

Did I mention that I’m hanging out at Shambhala Music Festival? With about ten thousand unreasonably sexy people? All writhing to the low end from six stages worth of PK speakers, which shake the otherwise quaint West Kootenay paradise.

It’s like living inside a tricked out, uncensored episode of The Raccoons.

Run with us.

We’ve got everything you need.

The marketplace is the central hub of the festival. A collection of food vendors and other services connect to pretty much every stage. If you’re out for a shamble—the act of aimlessly and inevitably wandering into adventure—you should pass this way.

It’s here that I spy the cops. Just hanging out.

I can’t not talk to them.

“Do you mind if I ask you guys a question?” I interject into their afternoon.

“Sure,” says the tall, moustachioed constable.

“Well,” I begin, “You guys know there’s some illegal activity going on around here, right?”

The stockier, coal-haired officer checks behind himself, looks back at his partner and then right through my sunglasses.

“I don’t see anything,” he shrugs.

I test the limits of my grin, confident that the law is in good hands with these mounties.

Run with us.

We are free. 

Remember that time I made a drunken pass at you on facebook?

When I told you that you were the sexiest woman in that class we took together?

Well, I still feel bad about it.

In part, I feel like I never should have done it. You really don’t deserve to be harassed like that just because you’ve got some alluring curves. I’m sure you’re somewhat used to it, but that in no way excuses or mitigates my behaviour.

I’m a bit of a dirtbag.

But I’ve had some cause to reconsider this exchange over the last couple weeks, and my biggest regret is not doing a better job of justifying why I felt that you were—and are—so goddamn smokin’ hot.

You’ve got a lot going for you.

But it’s your apex confidence that dominates it all.

Seductive, sensual excitement bleeds out of you.

Intoxicatingly.

Infectiously.

Invasively.

Indulgently.

Indisputably.

I could almost get lost in it. But we’re clearly different, you and I.

As much as I’d love to ignore that, I’m pretty sure we could never be as real as you.

There are a lot of attractive ladies at dance parties.

Sometimes I speak with them, but it’s almost exclusively in the context of simply establishing some half-decent conversation on a random topic.

The Hospital Records podcast.

The death of Muammar Gaddafi.

Skittles.

Which cousin shot which cousin.

Leave-in conditioners.

Normal stuff.

Someone named William Dean Howells once said, “The secret of the man who is universally interesting is that he is universally interested.” Taking these words to heart has made me a reasonably-capable conversationalist.

But also a terrible pickup artist.

Until recently, I had accepted that my general lack of success in this area was entirely the result of some flaw in my character or disposition or nature. I never really examined the considerable role played by my own agency.

Almost exactly a year ago, I had a young (drunk) woman, who I knew, hanging off of me at an event, whispering that she was ready to leave with me whenever I wanted. I guess a lot of guys would jump at this chance, and I’m not particularly interested in specifically faulting them for it. As far as I’m concerned, it would be inaccurate for me to say that my first thought was that taking advantage of this situation would somehow be wrong, because it actually entered my head at the same time as another thought.

I’d kinda like to stick around for The Glitch Mob.

And Breakage.

As much as I want hot women in my life, I’m really into exploiting a comfortable place to shake my gorgeous ass.

The previous anecdote notwithstanding, I have always assumed that a good number, if not the majority, of people who go out dancing are looking for basically the same thing. And I had essentially been telling myself that women, in particular, needed me to respect that. While the truth of this premise is almost undoubtedly debatable, it’s also immaterial. Faulty or not, I operated under it.

Now, as I write this, it seems damn near certain that I just invented that entire reality. Within it, I can focus on going out and losing my shit to skullshaking beats without needing to gauge my sense of self worth as a person, who happens to be a man, by my ability to influence—and ultimately control—other people, who happen to be women.

In framing this position, I had initially been thinking that I didn’t want to squander an awesome dance party on futile attempts at seducing ladies, but I’m not entirely convinced that I would consider successful attempts to be any less wasteful.

Women are everywhere.

(A fact that I appreciate. However.)

Dangerously enormous soundsystems helmed by world-class artists are not.

Perhaps Dragonette’s Martina Sorbara summed up my point best with her guest vocal on Martin Solveig’s Hello.

“You’re all right. But I’m here, darlin’, to enjoy the party.”