It seems like you can’t go more than 10 feet around here without seeing a plaid-clad hipster riding a fixie, talking about Thom Yorke’s 2006 EP, sporting an ironic mustache while walking their rescue mutt, who also has an ironic mustache. No one seems to remember that I was the original plaid-wearer around these parts. You think any of these kids have ever swung an axe in their life? Unlikely. Luckily, there are still guys and gals like me who earned their plaid through sweat, elbow grease and a dip of pipe tobacco. Sorry, hipsters, step aside and let the Hoss work.