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Most people think of me as that opinionated loudmouth on public radio who’s always carping about hackneyed halibut and mussel mediocrity. But I’m really hip . . . no really I am. Despite my age and weight and lack of sexual androgyny, I am with it in ways that most Vegans—who would be hip if they were Vegans—just don’t understand. How do I know these things? Well I just returned from the epicenter of hip in New York City and now feel like Kenneth Cole detoxing after a prada bender.
Those in the know, and I’m sure Vegas contains about three of you, already know where I stayed . . .but I’ll tell the rest of you anyway. It was a little. . .or was it a big place? It was hard to tell since it was so vague and imprecise and dark and indirect about everything that I never was quite sure if it even was a hotel. The place was called the Hudson Hotel, I think . . . after the river (get it?), but I’m not sure since neither the name, the address, or the front door is visible to mere mortals. The restaurant (quite good by the way. . .but how embarrassingly direct of me to say that), is called a cafeteria even though it is not one.
The Hudson is filled with razor thin Asian girls, who are really hip, even if they don’t have any, and is designed like Phillipe Starche has been reading way too much James Fenimore Cooper. Think Last of the Mohicans meets Memphis Group and you’ll get the picture. What’s that??? You don’t? Well that’s because you’re not hep to the jive man. Not on the beam or in the groove. You obviously don’t have an all black wardrobe, a bad haircut and big ugly shoes . . . which apparently drives the high-cheekboned hotties crazy these days . . . so get with it. You are sooo Vegas and I for one, feel sorry for you. But then again, you probably found the front door and the light in the bathroom at the last hotel you stayed at.
Mr. Hip here -- needed help.
This if John Curtas.