I met The Disney Hipsters in a sweaty bar in Harambe in the summer of ’97.
Adam smelled musky — like the feral cats that American tourists hope to see on their African safaris. Andrew sparkled like a Norwegian pop star slathered in a sweet, honeyed milk custard. Jamie announced her presence with an exuberant caterwaul, while Keith’s piercing blue eyes penetrated the room with a frozen gaze of doom. They wore indifferent faces, caked with sweat, grime, and weariness. They were a long way from New Jersey, mouths dry and desperate for anything to whet their whistles.
I said to them as they approached, “Jambo, y’all. Yins lookin’ fer a beer, eh?”
“Fuck. YES.” Keith blurted out, looking at me as if I were a saint. I gave him a Bud Light, the last of my stores of American lagers. He looked down at the swill, back up at me, and to his wife. Jamie raised her eyebrows, shrugged her shoulders, and said, “Well, boys, I think we just found out that beggars can be choosers, after all.”
Adam and Andrew put on their Ray-Ban’s, straightened their bowties, turned on their heels, and left my little bar. Jamie looked me up and down mercilessly with her eyes, shook her head disgustedly, and followed the boys out the door.
Keith asked me a question like a dagger piercing a defeated man’s chest. “What’s the name of this worthless dump?”
“D-d-d-dawa Bar,” I stammered, taken aback by this reaction to the Bud Light.
“You got a long way to go, pal, before this place is a bar I’ll ever give my money to,” he said as he locked eyes with me, grabbed the Bud Light off the bar, and poured it out over the floor right in front of me. He held his intense gaze for a few extra seconds, straightened his shirt, and followed the rest of the Hipsters out of the bar and out of my life.
I have been an avid listener of their podcast ever since.