Many months ago, my daughter must have heard me grousing about how hipsters in SUVs were, in real terms, probably more dangerous than the gangbangers whose former homes the former moved into. Not to get sentimental about the psychopaths whose actions have led to the deaths of too many children in this neighborhood. But I am sure that the careless driving of some of the pretty folks is more of a live hazard than the statistical unlikelihood of being caught by a stray bullet. I have said it before: At least the gangbangers drove slowly.

Be that as it may, my five-year-old daughter, Madeleine, may have heard me reflecting on this particular (now well-worn) pet peeve because she has formed the notion that traffic is caused by hipsters. When we get stuck in traffic she shouts from the back seat of the car, "Come on, hipsters! Move!"

At first I didn't have a theory where the notion came from. I asked Maddie if she thought it was a bad thing to be a hipster. She declined to respond. So I explained what a hipster was: someone who basically is interested in new art forms, new music, new clothes. I said they were easy to make fun of, because they didn't blend in, and many people were jealous. I said hipsters are like anyone else: Some are annoying, and some are cool. We even know a few here and there. They are part of the natural landscape of Echo Park these days, something to study not something to yell at from the back seat. In fact, much of what is fun and joyful in our neighborhood is created by hipsters. And we do not dislike people based on broad categorizations and...blah, blah.I was talking to myself. At the stoplight at Glendale and Duane: "Tell that hipster to move his car!" It was a gardener's truck.

I had to think about it for a while before I came to my theory about how Maddie arrived at her definition of the word. It was the fast lane from something I said months ago, to my befuddlement of the present. If I'm not off-track.

So we're caught on the 110 north going through downtown on Saturday. We are trying to get home to Echo Park. Maddie is falling asleep. In front and behind us a frozen river of hipsters, bumper-to-bumper. I wish I had a serviceable name for it.