On a sunny Tuesday in suburban South Florida, we bourgeoisie like to congregate, en masse, in lofty little plazas where a Starbucks sign seems almost vulgar among the other stores.
We tote around our moderately priced designer handbags and rest our expensive sunglasses on our heads, always desperately trying to outdo Boca Raton: the haughty Capulet to our Montague.
Short skirts and bejeweled flip-flops are abound and, as if paying homage to some deity of all things bouji, we ritualistically must sit under an umbrella, sip something organic and eat something decidedly ethnic, while complaining about the influx of pre-teens in the plaza.
Summer break aside, it's starting to look like hipster/urban Lord of the Flies around here. I walked out of a Barnes & Nobles only to be cornered and accosted by a gaggle of teenagers doing the "Cat Daddy" dance in the middle of the street like an urban flash mob.
If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. And join them we (save for my brother who actually is a teen) did. This foul display of DHA deficiency threw us into a heated debate over the merits of "planking" over "owling". Behold, this (left) is owling.
You just perch on the edge of some surface in public (much like an owl would) and call yourself having a good time. It's really for the snobbier types who don’t want to get their outfits dirty.
This (top) is planking; you lay flat (like a plank), face down, over random surfaces. Owling is completely
retar... something the weatherman from Anchorman would enjoy. Planking is... well, I'm not going to lie: I do feel a gleeful sense of accomplishment while planking. But I'm not going to choose between them. It's like asking me to choose between my two, red-headed, chromosomally impaired, step-children. I'm just glad to see people not taking themselves too seriously.
Enjoy summer. Go plank. Go "owl". Go Hamlet!