Turning Shit into Gold since 2006
If you’ve ever been to Austin, then you know we have a burner problem. Daily hackey sack duels punctuate an otherwise aimless wandering of the flagship Whole Foods store, counting down the hours until the next ped bridge drum circle gathering.
For the ladies of Smear, it was only a matter of time before we came to blows with these patchouli posers, our sworn enemies.
On a recent New Years Eve, the Smear crew was trapped at a house party dominated by rich hippies, many hailing from Dallas. The incense wafting off their squatty bodies gave an impression of free love but the scent couldn’t hide their truly uptight and privileged natures.
One man in particular was really chafing. We stood dumbfounded as he rhapsodized on his Rastafarian philosophy, occasionally tossing his long blonde dreads for effect. After several rounds of cheap champagne, my friends and I decided to stand up for chaos in the New Year by snipping off a portion of this white man’s burden, which was languidly flowing over the back of the couch.
When the clock struck twelve, clasping the scissors, I chopped a nub off his dreadlock. We cackled while attempting to back away unnoticed. But his rage was quick and the man flew off the couch and stormed out of the party. He took off (barefoot, naturally) and we heard his 4Runner’s squealing tires all the way out of sight.
I heard a few months later he chopped his whole mop, buzzed it down to oblivion. Maybe he realized that he wasn’t as peaceful as his hair led others to believe, and for that I respect our newly bald-headed stranger. I like to think, with a simple snip, that we created, for that stranger and ourselves, a new and better form of counterculture. Rage on…