RANT
The Hot Dog Kids
November 28, 2005
Every generation of modern American history has witnessed a notable, relevant counterculture.  From the dissenting colonialists who delivered us from British oppression to Huey Newton and the Black Panthers, there has always been a group of firebrands bent on demolishing the Dam of Establishment and unleashing the thunderous current of discontent.
We celebrate and embrace our former archetypes of rebellion.  The Beatnic’s, the Hippies, even the flannel wearing pseudo-intellectuals of the 90’s who drowned their hatred of Reaganomics in Starbucks coffee are indelible in our collective hearts.
But what about us?  Who are our rebellious heroes that will carry the subversive torch?  Who will our children dress up like on Halloween? 
Enter: The Hot Dog Kids.
Viva La Revolution.

The Hot Dog culture culminated shortly after Creed delivered the coup de grace on the credibility of alternative music in the late 1990’s.  Fed up with having corporate rock shoved down their throats in Audi commercials, the Hot Dog Kids revolted and instead embraced crappy bands that you’ve never heard of.  They traded their Ozzfest tickets for gas money to skanky local rock clubs, and their 3 Doors Down CD’s were swapped for Vinyl LP’s of more crappy bands that you’ve never heard of.

Hot Dog Kids are easy to spot because they all exhibit a striking number of identical characteristics (contrary to their persistent claims of individuality).  Typically, they are male, sort of fat, with a greasy, medium length messy-on-purpose bowl cut.  They wear black T-shirts of bands you’ve never heard of, or in some cases, T-shirts with ironic statements such as “Number One Grandpa”.  They come wrapped in leather or fatigue jackets covered front to back with patches of crappy bands that you’ve never heard of.  Hot Dog Kids always have a backpack with them (also covered in patches), and they only wear Converse high tops.

The most common characteristic of the Hot Dog, however, is the smell.  Imagine a hot dog cart left rotting in the middle of Sixth and Broadway on a sweltering August day.  It’s like that.  Or, imagine dumping a bowl of chicken noodle soup over the head of a Jordanian cab driver in the bathroom of a Turkish whorehouse.  It’s the sort of terminal B.O. that makes your eyes water and your gag reflex engage.

The easiest place to find them is at any local rock club that features crappy bands that you’ve never heard of. This can get tricky, because a lot of bars feature crappy bands that you’ve never heard of.  If you aren’t sure whether or not you’re in a Hot Dog Bar, check for the following things: 1. the overwhelming aroma of Eckrich beef franks.  2.  Strange absence of African Americans, even though the bar is in the middle of Detroit.  3.  Stain-covered green couch that you wouldn’t sit on if your life depended on it.  4.  No mirrors in the bathroom.  5.  Band on stage consists of only guitar and drums, one member is female, and they are remarkably, jaw droppingly terrible.
Other places that you will spot Hot Dog Kids are: independent record stores that feature only crappy bands you’ve never heard of, Salvation Army stores, community college campuses, and Tim Horton’s (behind the counter).

Don’t be deceived by their apathetic countenance, however.  Underneath the smelly, patch covered jacket of every Hot Dog Kid beats the heart of a true revolutionary.  Every time a Hot Dog tells you, “You’ve never heard of them, they’re from Cleveland”, he is really saying, “Fight.  Fight the corporate music factories.  Fight high ticket prices and youth oriented target marketing.  Fight twenty dollar CD’s.  And soap.”  When one of them pulls their 1984 Mazda into your driveway, check out a few dozen of the stickers on his car.  Ask him who some of the bands are, and even though you’ve never heard of any of them, you can bet that your NEXT pizza will arrive a few minutes sooner.

You don’t have to embrace Hot Dogma, but you must acknowledge it.  Our counterculture is literally blossoming right under our noses.  I know that when my children ask me if I was a Hot Dog Kid, much like when I asked my father if he was a hippie, I will tell them the same thing that he told me.  “No”, I will say.  “No I wasn’t, but some of daddy’s friends were.  And someday, Todd Bridges II, when you’re old enough, I will tell you about them.”

Viva La Hot Dog.

Dan Wright

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