“You may all go to Hell…I will go to Texas”-Davy Crockett
Davy Crockett's tombstone reads: “Davy Crockett, Pioneer, Patriot, Soldier, Trapper, Explorer, State Legislator, Congressman, Martyred at The Alamo.” It fails to mention that he killed a bear when he was but a wee lad of three, but hey, there's only so long you can go with an epitaph before you start to bore people. Crockett also wrote a book, the creatively titled, Narrative of the Life of Davy Crockett. Though it contains no mention of Silverlake, it does have an entire chapter on the proper way to wear buckskin. (“Snug, with just enough room to breath.”)
Over the years, the legend of Crockett has manifested itself in various forms. There was the Disneyfied, coonskin-cap wearing, King of the Wild Frontier, popularized by Fess Parker in such films as Davy Crockett Goes to Congress and Davy Crockett and the River Pirates. There was Davy Crockett as gay cowboy (presumably) in Davy Crockett: Rainbow in the Thunder. There was Davy Crockett as drunk existentialist, as played by Billy Bob Thornton in 2004's maligned, The Alamo. And as 2008 dawns, with its nebulous promise of a shift of the winds, it is time to unveil the latest incarnation of Crockett folklore: the hipster Davy Crockett.
Granted, it was only Thursday night that the first intrepid, visionary coonskin-cap wearer stepped into Spaceland as though he was the opening up Indian territory to Western expansion. And yes, it was just one hipster in one bar in one city. But rest assured this trend has the potential to spread like wildfire once the Harry and the Hendersons set realizes that not only can they project a new virile, musket-carrying image to their fair
leggings, ladies. More importantly, they can completely alter the hipster space time continuum, sending the wookie-world hurtling back to 1955. No longer will your favorite Eastside denizens look like they stepped out of an cocaine orgy that may or may not have involved Pat Benatar. Yessir, 2008 holds the promise of a bold new paradigm. Coonskin caps. Greased hair. Cigarette packs rolled into tight white tees. Poodle skirts. Malt shop chic. As for me, I highly doubt I'll adopt Crockett's sartorial flair, though if enough hipsters end up ironically rocking dead raccoons for the rest of the winter, it's highly probably that I'll tell everyone to go hell and set out for the Lone Star state. I hear Austin is lovely this time of year.
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