True to my word to you, dear readers, I attended a musical concert at one of Williamsburg's many bars last weekend. Saccharine Pansy and Her Trail of Tears was the opening act, and I think it is fair to say that no finer opener had ever graced a stage. Of course, in this case, it wasn't precisely a stage, more of a corner of the grimy, underlit bar, but regardless, Pansy was luminescent. It physically pains me to attempt to describe her sensational performance with my poor words, so I will instead entreat you once again to watch video footage of Tulip Sweet (either the one below or "Rising Action" from my previous post), replacing her with a woman twice as graceful, a hundred times as vibrant, a thousand times more beautiful; should you manage that feat, you will have at some bare idea of how captivating Pansy truly is.
The act ended in what seemed like seconds, but my untouched hot toddy had become cold, so it must have been close to an hour. In the wake of that artful masterpiece, I felt hot and cold at once, and only one thought occupied my mind: Pansy. My quest to become a hipster felt far away indeed, and I longed to strip myself of my ironic apparel and cast myself literally and figuratively naked at her feet, and implore her to tell me what man haunted her dreams, and do everything in my power to become that man.
Do not fear, dear reader; I was able to master that impulse! If I have learned nothing over the twenty-odd years of my life, it's that the above approach, while satisfying in its abandon, does not, in general, work. No, I steeled my heart, and gave control of my body back to my brain, which quickly posited the following: 1) as a denizen of the hipster world, Pansy would only be attracted to hipsters; 2) her star was of sufficient wattage that I would need to be among the pinnacle of hipsterdom to seek her company; 3) I had become established enough to at least introduce myself.
The thought of actually speaking to sweet Pansy was enough to shock me out of my reverie, and I took stock of my situation: I was still clapping (which, as it was a good five minutes after the performance had ended, was beginning to draw stares); my mouth was gaping open in what I assumed was a foolish manner; and as my tight jeans made abundantly clear, my regard for Pansy extended to the physical. With a Herculean effort, I lowered my arms, affected the disinterested smirk that comprised my "game face," and attempted to minimize, as unobtrusively as I could, the swelling threatening to burst my jeans at the seams.
Thus fortified, I made my way to the crowded bar, and within seconds, found her sitting (miracle of miracles!) alone. Taking a deep breath, I adjusted myself once again, and approached.
"Hey," I said. (I have, as you will note, gained at least some small understanding of the mores of hipster romance!)
She looked up at me from under her veil of golden bangs, and it took all my willpower to turn the smile that threatened to break out over my face into a frown, and prevent myself from uttering the words that trembled at my lips: "I love you, mind, body, and soul."
"Nice set," I said instead.
Her bright red lips curled upwards in a smile, transforming her face into a heavenly vision of beauty. Could a creature so refined even be human?
"Thanks," she said. A shudder went through me as she looked me over, and I unobtrusively dropped a hand over my resurgent tumescence. "So what, you want to try and get in my pants?"
Shocked out of my feigned disinterest, I responded honestly. "I would kill for the chance. Let me prove myself; I will worship you from afar, write sonnets in your honor--anything."
Her face disappeared under her bangs as I cursed my weakness, then I noticed that her shoulders were shaking. Was she laughing? She looked up at me again, her face inscrutable.
"Yeah, okay. Our next gig is on Wednesday. Same time, same place. I'll bring you up on stage when I want you to read."
I nodded, dumbstruck.
"Oh, and wear exactly what you're wearing now. It's hilarious."
I stared, knowing I should say something--a sarcastic quip or backhanded compliment, but when I opened my mouth to speak, no words came out.
"Okay," she said. "We're done here." And with that, she turned towards the person next to her--the accordion player from her band, I realized--and I slipped quickly out of the bar just as the drums from the headline act began to pound.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Cupid's Arrow
I apologize for my prolonged absence, dear readers, but I've found myself unable to eat, drink, or sleep of late. The same malady that has so afflicted me has also robbed me of my ability to write--or rather, of my desire to write. Or rather, of my desire to write about anything but her. Her, that tantalizing vixen of the stage, that incandescent star of hipster nightlife, that melofious sultan of song! She who inflames with a look and incinerates with a smile! Oh, dear readers, she is Helen of Troy, Juliet, and Scarlet Johansson all rolled into one!
When I decided to join the hipster subculture, I had no thoughts of love, and indeed, wary of its distracting snare, sought to shield myself against it. But with one toss of her flaxen locks, she unmasked me, and when she began to sing . . . Her voice pierced my heart, and pinned it quivering to the ground.
My friends, you are lucky that I have no footage from that glorious night, for I am certain many of you would be similarly stricken. However, as one must view an eclipse indirectly lest his eyes be burned, so shall I shield you from her full blinding glory! As Fortune has it, my sweet love does not perform her own music; she is in what is known as a "cover band." More specifically, a Tulip Sweet and Her Trail of Tears cover band, cleverly called Saccharine Pansy and Her Trail of Tears.
Like many of you, I had never heard of the original band, but in sharing the below, I believe I can give you some idea of the awesome beauty of my sweet, sweet Pansy. Enjoy, dear friends, but be wary, lest even this pale imitative original prove too much to bear!
When I decided to join the hipster subculture, I had no thoughts of love, and indeed, wary of its distracting snare, sought to shield myself against it. But with one toss of her flaxen locks, she unmasked me, and when she began to sing . . . Her voice pierced my heart, and pinned it quivering to the ground.
My friends, you are lucky that I have no footage from that glorious night, for I am certain many of you would be similarly stricken. However, as one must view an eclipse indirectly lest his eyes be burned, so shall I shield you from her full blinding glory! As Fortune has it, my sweet love does not perform her own music; she is in what is known as a "cover band." More specifically, a Tulip Sweet and Her Trail of Tears cover band, cleverly called Saccharine Pansy and Her Trail of Tears.
Like many of you, I had never heard of the original band, but in sharing the below, I believe I can give you some idea of the awesome beauty of my sweet, sweet Pansy. Enjoy, dear friends, but be wary, lest even this pale imitative original prove too much to bear!
Friday, January 30, 2009
A Revelation
Well, dear readers, I have successfully procrastinated on my grand Found Audience Telephone piece for five days, and to be perfectly frank, I might continue to do so indefinitely. It turns out, much to my surprise, that hipsters do not expect much in the way of follow-through!
To be clear, I fully planned on enlisting John's aid this week, but there always seemed to be something better to talk about: John's apparent jealousy towards me, an alarming rash I found on my thigh (which was not, if my physician is to be believed, cancer, but the result of my new, more form-fitting jeans), the respective speeds of Superman and the Flash . . . I confess, however, that I was, to the most minuscule degree imaginable, the teeniest bit hesitant to approach him. You see, John tends to take his job far too seriously, and is prone to lecturing about every minor infraction--taking a two-hour lunch instead of a one-hour, for example, or disconnecting his phone during a sale because he was late to our coffee break. It's not that I am afraid of him, mind, but he is so tiresome when he gets up on his high horse, I just couldn't bear the thought of the inevitable blah blah blah that will ensue when I explain that I'd like him to put his job on the line so that I can improve my standing in hipsterdom.
As a result, I stayed away from Williamsburg until yesterday, and that only because I wanted to make sure I hadn't missed out on some new fashion trend during my time away (I hadn't!). In an attempt to stay incognito, I wore a floppy hat and overlarge sunglasses, but my stature is apparently such that even then I am instantly recognizable, because within minutes, someone I had met last week did in fact approach me. Predictably enough, his first question was about my Found Audience Art. I answered, as mysteriously as I could, that "The time was not yet right," expecting him to see straight through me, then begin to point and laugh, which would in turn prompt our fellow hipsters on Bedford to begin flicking their cigarettes at me while chanting in unison "Poseur! Poseur! Poseur!" (I have not quite recovered, I fear, from the infamous Infinite Jest incident.) Instead, he nodded as if I'd said something profound and began to talk about delays on his own project du jour--a literal rat race that hipsters would be able to bet on.
Well, needless to say, I was quite relieved! Subsequent expeditions confirmed the fact that only some small progress in one's project (beginning construction of a tiny race track, in my friend's case) is necessary to maintain one's standing in hipsterdom. Indeed, I began to get the impression that merely thinking of a clever idea is enough to establish one's bona fides, which is really quite extraordinary! Imagine if our financial system operated in the same way; why, it would be a disaster!
But I digress. My current plan is to continue stalling until such time as I can phase out my ambitious Found Audience project in lieu of something a bit more manageable. Until then, I will maintain my presence in Williamsburg in the hopes of gaining admission to a genuine hipster fete. Next on the docket: an independent musical concert!
Handlebar mustache update: it has now been 24 days since I began, and to be honest, it is taking far longer than I thought it would. I have more or less acquired a mustache (more of the Burt Reynolds variety than the Errol Flynn), but the handlebar portion is still weeks--or even months--away. I shouldn't be too disappointed, I suppose--Rome having taken more than a day and all--but every time I see my little jar of Pinaud Clubman (purchased ambitiously on Day 2), a deep feeling of sadness wells up inside me.
To be clear, I fully planned on enlisting John's aid this week, but there always seemed to be something better to talk about: John's apparent jealousy towards me, an alarming rash I found on my thigh (which was not, if my physician is to be believed, cancer, but the result of my new, more form-fitting jeans), the respective speeds of Superman and the Flash . . . I confess, however, that I was, to the most minuscule degree imaginable, the teeniest bit hesitant to approach him. You see, John tends to take his job far too seriously, and is prone to lecturing about every minor infraction--taking a two-hour lunch instead of a one-hour, for example, or disconnecting his phone during a sale because he was late to our coffee break. It's not that I am afraid of him, mind, but he is so tiresome when he gets up on his high horse, I just couldn't bear the thought of the inevitable blah blah blah that will ensue when I explain that I'd like him to put his job on the line so that I can improve my standing in hipsterdom.
As a result, I stayed away from Williamsburg until yesterday, and that only because I wanted to make sure I hadn't missed out on some new fashion trend during my time away (I hadn't!). In an attempt to stay incognito, I wore a floppy hat and overlarge sunglasses, but my stature is apparently such that even then I am instantly recognizable, because within minutes, someone I had met last week did in fact approach me. Predictably enough, his first question was about my Found Audience Art. I answered, as mysteriously as I could, that "The time was not yet right," expecting him to see straight through me, then begin to point and laugh, which would in turn prompt our fellow hipsters on Bedford to begin flicking their cigarettes at me while chanting in unison "Poseur! Poseur! Poseur!" (I have not quite recovered, I fear, from the infamous Infinite Jest incident.) Instead, he nodded as if I'd said something profound and began to talk about delays on his own project du jour--a literal rat race that hipsters would be able to bet on.
Well, needless to say, I was quite relieved! Subsequent expeditions confirmed the fact that only some small progress in one's project (beginning construction of a tiny race track, in my friend's case) is necessary to maintain one's standing in hipsterdom. Indeed, I began to get the impression that merely thinking of a clever idea is enough to establish one's bona fides, which is really quite extraordinary! Imagine if our financial system operated in the same way; why, it would be a disaster!
But I digress. My current plan is to continue stalling until such time as I can phase out my ambitious Found Audience project in lieu of something a bit more manageable. Until then, I will maintain my presence in Williamsburg in the hopes of gaining admission to a genuine hipster fete. Next on the docket: an independent musical concert!
Handlebar mustache update: it has now been 24 days since I began, and to be honest, it is taking far longer than I thought it would. I have more or less acquired a mustache (more of the Burt Reynolds variety than the Errol Flynn), but the handlebar portion is still weeks--or even months--away. I shouldn't be too disappointed, I suppose--Rome having taken more than a day and all--but every time I see my little jar of Pinaud Clubman (purchased ambitiously on Day 2), a deep feeling of sadness wells up inside me.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
My Descent Into Madness
Pride cometh before a downfall, dear readers, and I fear that today, I have heralded my own.
It began, as these things often do, in a Williamsburg coffee shop, with me modestly admitting my previous triumphs in the art world, and a small group of fellow hipsters expressing their understated admiration for the same. Then these inquisitive hipsters began to wonder, innocently enough, the purpose of my art. I panicked, as you can imagine, dear readers, since my "Art" was a sham--an excuse, if admittedly a clever one, for my own failings as a hipster. I began to hem and haw, and was, I saw quite clearly, losing my audience, when it dawned on me: just because I hadn't intended to create art didn't mean I hadn't. After all, art is a relative proposition. Warhol could easily just have been some guy who liked to paint soup cans, but the world perceived him to be an artist, and so he was. What was the difference in my case? The fact that I could not readily conceive of an answer had a salutatory effect on me, and my confidence grew. As my pontification became assured, more and more "cools" and disaffected shrugs followed. This high praise intoxicated me, as a dance troupe of slim-hipped youths would a pederast, and when they asked me what my next project was, I carelessly alluded to telemarketing.
Yes, I had brazenly exposed my own greatest weakness! They raised their eyebrows--the hipster equivalent of a shocked gasp--and I wildly sought to reassure them. I had faked my way into telemarketing, I told them, so that I could execute a Found Audience Art masterpiece. Which would have been well and good, had what I had so crapulously laid out not committed me to something I fear 1) is not possible, 2) will cost me my job if attempted, and 3) will cost the job of my dear friend John, without whom this attempt cannot be made.
A disaster, dear readers, entirely of my own making. If only I'd left it simple--claimed that I would, say, passively resist, like Bartleby the Scrivner--I might have escaped unscathed, but oh no, I had to make this grandiose announcement: that I would convince my fellow telemarketers to play a game of telephone with a rival teleconferencing company.
I knew that the idea--a long-running joke I share with John--would be well-met (how could it not?) but even I could not have predicted the collective excitement from the group. I even got not one but TWO admiring chuckles! Suddenly, I was the focal point of the entire room, as hipsters began hurling suggestions at me faster than I could take them in, each one hitting me like a snort of snuff. Before I knew what had happened, I had giddily committed to not only performing this insane feat, but making an audio recording of it to boot!
I believe I have worked out the logistics, dear friends, but it is madness--a veritable suicide mission--and its success will require not only my efforts, but those of my closest friend, who I fear will not be easily convinced. At stake: my reputation in the hipster world.
It began, as these things often do, in a Williamsburg coffee shop, with me modestly admitting my previous triumphs in the art world, and a small group of fellow hipsters expressing their understated admiration for the same. Then these inquisitive hipsters began to wonder, innocently enough, the purpose of my art. I panicked, as you can imagine, dear readers, since my "Art" was a sham--an excuse, if admittedly a clever one, for my own failings as a hipster. I began to hem and haw, and was, I saw quite clearly, losing my audience, when it dawned on me: just because I hadn't intended to create art didn't mean I hadn't. After all, art is a relative proposition. Warhol could easily just have been some guy who liked to paint soup cans, but the world perceived him to be an artist, and so he was. What was the difference in my case? The fact that I could not readily conceive of an answer had a salutatory effect on me, and my confidence grew. As my pontification became assured, more and more "cools" and disaffected shrugs followed. This high praise intoxicated me, as a dance troupe of slim-hipped youths would a pederast, and when they asked me what my next project was, I carelessly alluded to telemarketing.
Yes, I had brazenly exposed my own greatest weakness! They raised their eyebrows--the hipster equivalent of a shocked gasp--and I wildly sought to reassure them. I had faked my way into telemarketing, I told them, so that I could execute a Found Audience Art masterpiece. Which would have been well and good, had what I had so crapulously laid out not committed me to something I fear 1) is not possible, 2) will cost me my job if attempted, and 3) will cost the job of my dear friend John, without whom this attempt cannot be made.
A disaster, dear readers, entirely of my own making. If only I'd left it simple--claimed that I would, say, passively resist, like Bartleby the Scrivner--I might have escaped unscathed, but oh no, I had to make this grandiose announcement: that I would convince my fellow telemarketers to play a game of telephone with a rival teleconferencing company.
I knew that the idea--a long-running joke I share with John--would be well-met (how could it not?) but even I could not have predicted the collective excitement from the group. I even got not one but TWO admiring chuckles! Suddenly, I was the focal point of the entire room, as hipsters began hurling suggestions at me faster than I could take them in, each one hitting me like a snort of snuff. Before I knew what had happened, I had giddily committed to not only performing this insane feat, but making an audio recording of it to boot!
I believe I have worked out the logistics, dear friends, but it is madness--a veritable suicide mission--and its success will require not only my efforts, but those of my closest friend, who I fear will not be easily convinced. At stake: my reputation in the hipster world.
Friday, January 23, 2009
A Portrait of the Found Audience Artist as a Young Hipster
Well, dear readers, yesterday I discovered something remarkable: Found Audience Art, created in a panic by me just a few days ago, had taken on a life of its own. Or at least, that's how I interpreted the new signs springing up in Williamsburg like so many Spring flowers. They were unadorned, plain sheets of paper bearing the printed message, "Have You Been Found?" and they were stapled to trees, taped to street lamps, and hung in the odd window.
At first, I thought it a mere coincidence, but as I saw more and more of them (at least 30, dear readers!), I grew increasingly hopeful that they referred to my new art form. Wishing for confirmation, I stopped at one such poster and pretended to look at it more closely. Within seconds, a baby-faced hipster joined me! I nearly asked him if he knew what the poster meant, but fearful of projecting ignorance instead of hipness, I remained silent, thinking rapidly. How to signal that I knew exactly what it was, approved of it, and wished to initiate a conversation about it? Obviously, saying those things were quite out of the question--from hard experience, I have learned that one does not approach a hipster in such a direct manner. Then it dawned on me; acting quickly, I nodded once at the poster, said "Cool," and turned to go, pausing ever-so-briefly before doing so.
"Yeah," said the young hipster next to me, halting me in my tracks. It had worked! "It's like, the newest thing."
"Indeed," I said.
"At first, I thought it was like some sort of corporate marketing campaign--it's not, though" he added quickly, "and I was like, that's totally lame, but then I heard about Found Audience."
"Genius," I said, and I confess, dear readers, I began to preen a bit.
"Yeah, it's pretty cool."
"So, have you been found?" I asked.
Obviously, this young man was, like me, just starting down the road to hipsterdom, as his face all-too-clearly telegraphed his embarrassment at having to answer, "No."
I knew that the hip thing to do would be to snort, then walk away, asserting my superiority, but my tender heart went out to him, and instead, I nodded, staying where I was. He just barely managed to contain a pleased smile (which made me, I confess, quite proud of him. He was learning so fast!).
Then he asked me the logical follow-up question.
"No," I said, to his obvious surprise. "I find; I am not found."
His little brow furrowed, and, pleased with my riddle, I turned, and walked away majestically. Or at least, I tried to, but a patch of ice hindered my exit, and instead of exiting majestically, I slipped stupendously. Limbs flailing, I groped for the pole, tearing off the "Have You Been Found" sign, then falling onto the sidewalk.
I got up as quickly as possible, surreptitiously rubbing my rump, which had born the majority of the impact, then slipped, again, on yet another patch of ice, lurching this time into a female hipster. Groping for purchase, I latched on to her shirt with my free hand, and very nearly righted myself before her shirt tore. I caught only the merest glimpse of bare flesh before I returned to the ground, this time hitting my elbow. The pain was quite severe, dear readers, and I confess to rolling around on the dirty road, yowling in pain.
By this time, needless to say, the progress of my fellow hipsters had all but ceased as they watched the spectacle before them. I could scarcely blame them; why, the sight of a half-naked hipsteress along would have been enough to make me stop, and with the addition of a rotund hipster moaning on the ground in agony, I expect only the blind and deaf would have kept moving! As the pain slowly subsided, I realized that I was still holding both the shirt and poster in my hands, and became acutely aware of the infamy such an embarrassing display would provoke.
I had, I knew, only one option, and extracting a pen from my coat pocket, I held the muddied poster in front of my face, and changed the text to read, "Have You ^(Have) Been Found," then rising (carefully!) to my feet, handed it, along with the scrap of shirt, to the hipstress, whose arms were now crossed protectively over her chest. She accepted them wordlessly (looking a bit shocked, I must say), and I bowed with as much of a flourish as I could manage, then picked my way slowly, but nonetheless with a certain regal dignity, towards the subway station.
I held my breath as I walked away, hoping against hope that I would hear a light patter of applause swell behind me. Alas, this did not happen, and I quickly drew the conclusion that I, along with Found Audience Art, were finished before they could properly have begun. My squalid trip home was wholly depressing, dear readers, and I might have even succumbed to tears had it not been for a conversation between two hipsters that I overheard at Union Square.
"Check it out," said one hipster, holding up his cell phone to his friend.
"Cool," said the other. "Found Audience is deck."
Now, had it not been for my dear friends over at How To Impress a Hipster, I would have been sure that "deck" meant either "lame," "embarrassing," or "tragic," and might very well have died from this confirmation of my worst fears; instead, my heart, like the Grinch's, grew three sizes in that moment, and for the rest of my trip home, I felt like the returning conqueror!
At first, I thought it a mere coincidence, but as I saw more and more of them (at least 30, dear readers!), I grew increasingly hopeful that they referred to my new art form. Wishing for confirmation, I stopped at one such poster and pretended to look at it more closely. Within seconds, a baby-faced hipster joined me! I nearly asked him if he knew what the poster meant, but fearful of projecting ignorance instead of hipness, I remained silent, thinking rapidly. How to signal that I knew exactly what it was, approved of it, and wished to initiate a conversation about it? Obviously, saying those things were quite out of the question--from hard experience, I have learned that one does not approach a hipster in such a direct manner. Then it dawned on me; acting quickly, I nodded once at the poster, said "Cool," and turned to go, pausing ever-so-briefly before doing so.
"Yeah," said the young hipster next to me, halting me in my tracks. It had worked! "It's like, the newest thing."
"Indeed," I said.
"At first, I thought it was like some sort of corporate marketing campaign--it's not, though" he added quickly, "and I was like, that's totally lame, but then I heard about Found Audience."
"Genius," I said, and I confess, dear readers, I began to preen a bit.
"Yeah, it's pretty cool."
"So, have you been found?" I asked.
Obviously, this young man was, like me, just starting down the road to hipsterdom, as his face all-too-clearly telegraphed his embarrassment at having to answer, "No."
I knew that the hip thing to do would be to snort, then walk away, asserting my superiority, but my tender heart went out to him, and instead, I nodded, staying where I was. He just barely managed to contain a pleased smile (which made me, I confess, quite proud of him. He was learning so fast!).
Then he asked me the logical follow-up question.
"No," I said, to his obvious surprise. "I find; I am not found."
His little brow furrowed, and, pleased with my riddle, I turned, and walked away majestically. Or at least, I tried to, but a patch of ice hindered my exit, and instead of exiting majestically, I slipped stupendously. Limbs flailing, I groped for the pole, tearing off the "Have You Been Found" sign, then falling onto the sidewalk.
I got up as quickly as possible, surreptitiously rubbing my rump, which had born the majority of the impact, then slipped, again, on yet another patch of ice, lurching this time into a female hipster. Groping for purchase, I latched on to her shirt with my free hand, and very nearly righted myself before her shirt tore. I caught only the merest glimpse of bare flesh before I returned to the ground, this time hitting my elbow. The pain was quite severe, dear readers, and I confess to rolling around on the dirty road, yowling in pain.
By this time, needless to say, the progress of my fellow hipsters had all but ceased as they watched the spectacle before them. I could scarcely blame them; why, the sight of a half-naked hipsteress along would have been enough to make me stop, and with the addition of a rotund hipster moaning on the ground in agony, I expect only the blind and deaf would have kept moving! As the pain slowly subsided, I realized that I was still holding both the shirt and poster in my hands, and became acutely aware of the infamy such an embarrassing display would provoke.
I had, I knew, only one option, and extracting a pen from my coat pocket, I held the muddied poster in front of my face, and changed the text to read, "
I held my breath as I walked away, hoping against hope that I would hear a light patter of applause swell behind me. Alas, this did not happen, and I quickly drew the conclusion that I, along with Found Audience Art, were finished before they could properly have begun. My squalid trip home was wholly depressing, dear readers, and I might have even succumbed to tears had it not been for a conversation between two hipsters that I overheard at Union Square.
"Check it out," said one hipster, holding up his cell phone to his friend.
"Cool," said the other. "Found Audience is deck."
Now, had it not been for my dear friends over at How To Impress a Hipster, I would have been sure that "deck" meant either "lame," "embarrassing," or "tragic," and might very well have died from this confirmation of my worst fears; instead, my heart, like the Grinch's, grew three sizes in that moment, and for the rest of my trip home, I felt like the returning conqueror!
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Inauguration Day
As promised, I spent some time in Williamsburg yesterday afternoon to celebrate the inauguration of our 44th president, Barack Obama. Williamsburg was majestic as always, and my fellow hipsters indeed seemed to be in a festive mood--instead of their usual sullen and slouched demeanor, their heads were held high, and they even nodded (and occasionally smiled!) as they passed each other on the streets. It was all quite inspiring! Change I could indeed believe in!
I walked immediately to a dive bar I had read about online located near the Lorimer stop. As I approached, I saw a fellow hipster sitting outside the bar, which I found quite unusual, given the cold weather. He was perhaps in his early 30's, with artfully disheveled brown hair that he blew carelessly away from his face as I got closer, and was well-protected against the elements, having taken layering to an extreme level. He wore no fewer than 6 different shirt of varying thickness, with the outermost layer consisting of an oversized t-shirt which read "Special Olympics." The entire ironic package (including what I believe were tattered orange shoes that reminded me of those designed for skate boarders) was quite a remarkable example of hipster fashion, I thought to myself.
Cognizant of the new, more friendly attitude hipsters were taking towards one another, I greeted him, and inquired as to whether he was excited about the inauguration. He mumbled something that I couldn't quite make out in response, but I distinctly heard the word "Change" in his answer, and thus encouraged, I sat down next to him. He companionably made room for me, then mumbled something, of which I only caught the words "drink" and "cold." Thinking this mumbling was perhaps a new hipster trend, I quickly adopted his lingo, inserting the words "Obama" and "Inauguration" into a stream of gibberish. He seemed impressed by my quick grasp of the vernacular, and invited me in to the bar for a drink. Either that, or he asked me to buy him a drink, but either way, I was quite sure he wanted to go in to the bar, which was just as well since I was not quite as well-prepared for the cold weather as my new hipster friend. Concrete is cold!
I readily accepted, and he sprung spryly to his feet. I imagine you know me well enough by now, gentle readers, to guess that I felt quite proud of myself for having made such a successful entry to the hipster inaugural celebration! I held the door open for him, and he immediately procured a table in the mostly empty barroom. I headed to the bartender, and asked him for two hot toddies. He was, apparently, not as practiced in hipsterease (as I began calling it in my head) as I, and asked me to repeat myself three times before I finally abandoned the argot and asked him in plain Queen's English for two hot toddies.
When I returned to our table with drinks in hand, I couldn't help but notice that my new friend had fallen asleep! Undoubtedly, I thought to myself, he had been partying excessively before I had arrived (which would also explain his rather pungent breath), and the warmth inside the bar had lulled him to sleep. I mumbled to him that the drinks had arrived, and handed him the toddy, which he gulped down with astonishing speed. Before I could so much as begin to discuss the finer points of Infinite Jest or the latest Animal Collective album with him, he had leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes again. Thinking this was perhaps the "hip" thing to do in mostly empty dive bars (after all, I told myself, one must conserve one's energy when one can if one plans to party all night), I plugged my nose, downed my toddy, and followed suit.
Before I so much as got comfortable, I was rudely shaken by the bartender, who told me, if you can believe it, to take myself and my "bum friend" out of his bar. At this point, the few other patrons, hipsters all, were looking at us with what I took for intense interest. Mindful of the audience, I rose to my feet, and indignantly defended my friend, explaining that he was hardly a bum, but rather a fine example of your modern-day hipster, and that not only did he likely have a home in the form of an artist's loft, but a trust fund to boot! Unfortunately, I explained all this in hipsterease, which as you'll undoubtedly remember, our bartender did not speak. All he seemed to pick up from my speech was the word "hipster," and it seemed that he took it for an insult, as he responded by saying, "I'll show you a fucking hipster, asshole," then he bodily dragged me to the door and tossed me outside, followed shortly by my new friend.
As we dusted ourselves off, I couldn't help but notice that my friend did indeed bear some of the mannerisms common to one who was homeless: the few-days growth of beard, initially taken for disaffected scruffiness, now seemed the result of having neither hot water nor a razor; the the ripped jeans not a fashion statement but a necessity; the odor coming from him not an environmental statement against deodorent's chemicals, but rather the lack of access to a shower.
Suddenly I felt like quite the fool, and apologized to the homeless man for having mistaken him for a hipster. He was quite gracious, and (I'm fairly certain) thanked me profusely for the drink, and settled himself back into his original position against the bar. Meanwhile, I began castigating myself mentally for the error, and hoped--futilely, as I shortly discovered--that the bar's other patrons were ALSO bums instead of hipsters, as that would have negated the impact of my gaffe.
As I started to trudge away from the bar, the door swung open and two hipsters (I was quite certain they were hipsters and not homeless people, as one clutched a laptop to his chest and the other wore a Swatch; fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me!) emerged. I squared my shoulders, ready to accept their abuse manfully.
"Hey," said the one holding the laptop.
"Hey," I mumbled back.
"That was hilarious," said the other, with no expression whatsoever.
At this point, I paused, wondering if they were perhaps playing some cruel trick on me. Either that or they thought I had intentionally invited the homeless man in as some sort of joke. Quickly deciding on a course of action that would suit either scenario, I simply shrugged, then turned to walk away.
"Was that, like, performance art?" asked the Swatch one. I turned again, a faint flicker of joy budding in my chest.
"Yeah," I said, quickly dropping the mumbling and instead adopting their deadpan deliveries.
"Cool."
I had garnered a "cool" from a bonafide hipster! Containing my excitement, I shrugged again, then asked, "What do you do?"
"I make hats," he said, pointing at his own, which had red crosshairs superimposed over a yellow truck.
"Cool," I said.
"So, like, did you advertise at all or anything?"
"No," I said, thinking quickly, "I want the audience to be surprised. You know how Found Art is just made up of random objects? Well, I want my audience to, uh, be found. I call it 'Found Audience.'"
Both sets of hipster eyebrows raised as one. "Found Audience," said the laptop hipster.
"Cool," said the Swatch one.
Needless to say, dear readers, I wanted to shout my joy to the world! Instead, I shrugged again, said "Later," then walked to the L train. Not only had I survived what could have been a fatal gaffe, I had carved out a niche for myself in the hipster world! I was a Found Audience Artist!
I walked immediately to a dive bar I had read about online located near the Lorimer stop. As I approached, I saw a fellow hipster sitting outside the bar, which I found quite unusual, given the cold weather. He was perhaps in his early 30's, with artfully disheveled brown hair that he blew carelessly away from his face as I got closer, and was well-protected against the elements, having taken layering to an extreme level. He wore no fewer than 6 different shirt of varying thickness, with the outermost layer consisting of an oversized t-shirt which read "Special Olympics." The entire ironic package (including what I believe were tattered orange shoes that reminded me of those designed for skate boarders) was quite a remarkable example of hipster fashion, I thought to myself.
Cognizant of the new, more friendly attitude hipsters were taking towards one another, I greeted him, and inquired as to whether he was excited about the inauguration. He mumbled something that I couldn't quite make out in response, but I distinctly heard the word "Change" in his answer, and thus encouraged, I sat down next to him. He companionably made room for me, then mumbled something, of which I only caught the words "drink" and "cold." Thinking this mumbling was perhaps a new hipster trend, I quickly adopted his lingo, inserting the words "Obama" and "Inauguration" into a stream of gibberish. He seemed impressed by my quick grasp of the vernacular, and invited me in to the bar for a drink. Either that, or he asked me to buy him a drink, but either way, I was quite sure he wanted to go in to the bar, which was just as well since I was not quite as well-prepared for the cold weather as my new hipster friend. Concrete is cold!
I readily accepted, and he sprung spryly to his feet. I imagine you know me well enough by now, gentle readers, to guess that I felt quite proud of myself for having made such a successful entry to the hipster inaugural celebration! I held the door open for him, and he immediately procured a table in the mostly empty barroom. I headed to the bartender, and asked him for two hot toddies. He was, apparently, not as practiced in hipsterease (as I began calling it in my head) as I, and asked me to repeat myself three times before I finally abandoned the argot and asked him in plain Queen's English for two hot toddies.
When I returned to our table with drinks in hand, I couldn't help but notice that my new friend had fallen asleep! Undoubtedly, I thought to myself, he had been partying excessively before I had arrived (which would also explain his rather pungent breath), and the warmth inside the bar had lulled him to sleep. I mumbled to him that the drinks had arrived, and handed him the toddy, which he gulped down with astonishing speed. Before I could so much as begin to discuss the finer points of Infinite Jest or the latest Animal Collective album with him, he had leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes again. Thinking this was perhaps the "hip" thing to do in mostly empty dive bars (after all, I told myself, one must conserve one's energy when one can if one plans to party all night), I plugged my nose, downed my toddy, and followed suit.
Before I so much as got comfortable, I was rudely shaken by the bartender, who told me, if you can believe it, to take myself and my "bum friend" out of his bar. At this point, the few other patrons, hipsters all, were looking at us with what I took for intense interest. Mindful of the audience, I rose to my feet, and indignantly defended my friend, explaining that he was hardly a bum, but rather a fine example of your modern-day hipster, and that not only did he likely have a home in the form of an artist's loft, but a trust fund to boot! Unfortunately, I explained all this in hipsterease, which as you'll undoubtedly remember, our bartender did not speak. All he seemed to pick up from my speech was the word "hipster," and it seemed that he took it for an insult, as he responded by saying, "I'll show you a fucking hipster, asshole," then he bodily dragged me to the door and tossed me outside, followed shortly by my new friend.
As we dusted ourselves off, I couldn't help but notice that my friend did indeed bear some of the mannerisms common to one who was homeless: the few-days growth of beard, initially taken for disaffected scruffiness, now seemed the result of having neither hot water nor a razor; the the ripped jeans not a fashion statement but a necessity; the odor coming from him not an environmental statement against deodorent's chemicals, but rather the lack of access to a shower.
Suddenly I felt like quite the fool, and apologized to the homeless man for having mistaken him for a hipster. He was quite gracious, and (I'm fairly certain) thanked me profusely for the drink, and settled himself back into his original position against the bar. Meanwhile, I began castigating myself mentally for the error, and hoped--futilely, as I shortly discovered--that the bar's other patrons were ALSO bums instead of hipsters, as that would have negated the impact of my gaffe.
As I started to trudge away from the bar, the door swung open and two hipsters (I was quite certain they were hipsters and not homeless people, as one clutched a laptop to his chest and the other wore a Swatch; fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me!) emerged. I squared my shoulders, ready to accept their abuse manfully.
"Hey," said the one holding the laptop.
"Hey," I mumbled back.
"That was hilarious," said the other, with no expression whatsoever.
At this point, I paused, wondering if they were perhaps playing some cruel trick on me. Either that or they thought I had intentionally invited the homeless man in as some sort of joke. Quickly deciding on a course of action that would suit either scenario, I simply shrugged, then turned to walk away.
"Was that, like, performance art?" asked the Swatch one. I turned again, a faint flicker of joy budding in my chest.
"Yeah," I said, quickly dropping the mumbling and instead adopting their deadpan deliveries.
"Cool."
I had garnered a "cool" from a bonafide hipster! Containing my excitement, I shrugged again, then asked, "What do you do?"
"I make hats," he said, pointing at his own, which had red crosshairs superimposed over a yellow truck.
"Cool," I said.
"So, like, did you advertise at all or anything?"
"No," I said, thinking quickly, "I want the audience to be surprised. You know how Found Art is just made up of random objects? Well, I want my audience to, uh, be found. I call it 'Found Audience.'"
Both sets of hipster eyebrows raised as one. "Found Audience," said the laptop hipster.
"Cool," said the Swatch one.
Needless to say, dear readers, I wanted to shout my joy to the world! Instead, I shrugged again, said "Later," then walked to the L train. Not only had I survived what could have been a fatal gaffe, I had carved out a niche for myself in the hipster world! I was a Found Audience Artist!
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Barack Obama
I suppose, since it is after all Inauguration Weekend, that I should at least briefly touch on politics, even though it is not something I've considered much since my days as a Young Republican. In fact, 2008 marks the first election year that I have not submitted an absentee ballot bearing the write-in, "Ming the Merciless" (while he could be quite brutal, one could hardly argue with his success as a leader; I imagine being President of the United States would be quite easy after having been Emperor of the Universe!). In truth, even as a Young Republican, I was more interested in their natty attire, posh cocktail parties and, I am chagrined to confess, the distinct whiff of old money one caught when lunching with them. At the time, my interest was quite sincere, but upon reflection, I had been blinded by their wealth, and their close-mindedness and latent hostility did not become apparent to me until they mistakenly took me for a homosexual. I tried to explain that I was quite straight, and even offered to conclusively prove my sexual orientation with our president's delightfully flapper-esque girlfriend (whom I'm certain would have been amenable; she often seemed as taken with me as she was bored with him. When inebriated, she engaged me in long conversations about non-YR approved music, the United States' unfair drug laws, and my days as a Rasti. Although upon reflection, it's possible that she was asking me in a roundabout way for marijuana. Hm. Either way, she was entirely unsuitable for our jack-booted President, and I rather imagine she is now a hipster in some urban mecca, perhaps even sporting a mustache!). At any rate, they did not receive this offer in the spirit in which it was intended, and quite literally chased me out of their association.
Fortunately, their persecution ensured my acceptance into the Lesbian-Gay-Bisexual-Transexual community, who were quite sweet, but who as I discovered later, labored under the same misconception. I'm not quite sure why I make this impression; I dress entirely appropriately to the subculture with which I identify (which in some cases has been rather similar to homosexual attire), and while I do occasionally use words such as "gay" and "queer" in the classical sense, I hardly think that alone should be evidence of gayness. Quite the opposite, in fact! One would have thought as well that the L/G/B/Ts would have finely honed "gaydars" and would be able to see in an instant that I do not share their predilictions; one would, however, be sadly mistaken. When I attempted to purge them of their misunderstanding, they said they knew what I was going through and would "be there" for me if I ever changed my mind. It was all quite confusing.
But I digress. In terms of our forthcoming president, I am optimistic. In addition to his youth and style, he is quite articulate, although those are not the only reasons I broke my streak of "Ming the Merciless" votes; no, due credit goes to the young Obama supporter I saw shouting obscenities at an octogenarian bearing a John McCain button. In addition to being quite lovely in her rage (homosexual, indeed!), she was breathtakingly inventive. If all she had called him was an "inebriate fascit f***" she likely would have won my vote for Obama, but that turned out to be only her opening salvo! Before it was all said and done, the object of her ire (whom from context I believe must have said something about stricter language regulation of the film and music industry) had turned an ashen gray and looked about ready to collapse to the ground! Had it not been for her cane, in fact, I think she might have. After our young heroine was done, I attempted to tell her of her success converting me into an Obama supporter (and, truth be told, ask her out for a hot toddy) but I believe she thought I was "yanking her chain," as it were, because she cut me off with an invective (a somewhat dissapointing one, to tell the truth, but one can hardly blame her for being a bit drained just seconds after completing such a virtuoso performance).
All in all, I do think Tuesday will be a splendid occasion; I fully intend on spending as much of it as possible in Williamsbug, celebrating with my fellow hipsters! Assuming, that is, that they will be celebrating; I get the impression that they approve of Obama, but they are sometimes a bit understated/ironic about their heroes. I shall have to be prepared to modify my "Huzzah's!" to "cool's" or, if necessary, even indifferent shrugs . . .
Fortunately, their persecution ensured my acceptance into the Lesbian-Gay-Bisexual-Transexual community, who were quite sweet, but who as I discovered later, labored under the same misconception. I'm not quite sure why I make this impression; I dress entirely appropriately to the subculture with which I identify (which in some cases has been rather similar to homosexual attire), and while I do occasionally use words such as "gay" and "queer" in the classical sense, I hardly think that alone should be evidence of gayness. Quite the opposite, in fact! One would have thought as well that the L/G/B/Ts would have finely honed "gaydars" and would be able to see in an instant that I do not share their predilictions; one would, however, be sadly mistaken. When I attempted to purge them of their misunderstanding, they said they knew what I was going through and would "be there" for me if I ever changed my mind. It was all quite confusing.
But I digress. In terms of our forthcoming president, I am optimistic. In addition to his youth and style, he is quite articulate, although those are not the only reasons I broke my streak of "Ming the Merciless" votes; no, due credit goes to the young Obama supporter I saw shouting obscenities at an octogenarian bearing a John McCain button. In addition to being quite lovely in her rage (homosexual, indeed!), she was breathtakingly inventive. If all she had called him was an "inebriate fascit f***" she likely would have won my vote for Obama, but that turned out to be only her opening salvo! Before it was all said and done, the object of her ire (whom from context I believe must have said something about stricter language regulation of the film and music industry) had turned an ashen gray and looked about ready to collapse to the ground! Had it not been for her cane, in fact, I think she might have. After our young heroine was done, I attempted to tell her of her success converting me into an Obama supporter (and, truth be told, ask her out for a hot toddy) but I believe she thought I was "yanking her chain," as it were, because she cut me off with an invective (a somewhat dissapointing one, to tell the truth, but one can hardly blame her for being a bit drained just seconds after completing such a virtuoso performance).
All in all, I do think Tuesday will be a splendid occasion; I fully intend on spending as much of it as possible in Williamsbug, celebrating with my fellow hipsters! Assuming, that is, that they will be celebrating; I get the impression that they approve of Obama, but they are sometimes a bit understated/ironic about their heroes. I shall have to be prepared to modify my "Huzzah's!" to "cool's" or, if necessary, even indifferent shrugs . . .
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
The Manner in Which I Earn My Rent, John
Dear readers, now that I've achieved some modicum of success, I find it incumbent upon myself to disclose perhaps the single greatest impediment to my ultimate goal: I am a telemarketer. Lacking a trust fund, or the fortitude to survive under the conformist pressure of corporate America, I have turned to that bastion of the unsuccessful artist, that haven of single mothers, that last refuge for the unambitious. Yes, that pest whom annoys you daily at dinner time and I are one in the same.
Now, having laid out ample cause for alarm, I hasten to add that the job is not all bad. In fact, aside from the disdain with which the public holds the profession, it is scarcely bad at all. The hours are flexible, the pay decent, and once one has mastered one's fear of rejection, it's not particularly difficult. The most appealing part of the telemarketing, however, is the colorful characters with whom one interacts on a daily basis. I do not speak of the sad sacks whom we call, but those worthies with whom we work. As alluded to above, they are artists--actors between parts, painters between grants, directors between producers--sweet, sassy, hardworking single mothers drawn in by the flexible hours, and, most enticing of all, those unambitious nonconformists whom, for whatever reason, are simply not cut out for other work.
One such telemarketer, whom I know only as "Tex," wears a cowboy hat and boots--with spurs!--in the office, every single day. He never speaks, either to me, or any of our fellow coworkers; in fact, the only time we hear his voice is when he makes sales calls, during which time he speaks crisp, unaccented English. All in all, he is enveloped in an impenetrable shroud of mystery that I find quite intriguing. Granted, this mystery may well be solved when he brings in a six shooter and uses us as target practice, but until such a time, I consider him a delicious distraction from the daily monotony.
There is also a shared camradrie between us, and a reckless spirit which finds its outlet in various games and contests we employ to help pass the time. For example, in our office, Talk Like A Pirate Day is not just a wry Internet phenomenon, but rather an opportunity to see who can employ more pirate vernacular during a sales call. Or there was the day where, at John's rather brilliant suggestion, we adopted fake Indian accents for all our calls. Granted, this wound up exposing a virulent strain of racism in our office, and left our sales efforts in shambles, but in terms of livening up our day, it was entirely successful!
But I digress. The point is, if I wish to be a respected member of the hipster community, I lack a suitable job. I am also, for all the above reasons, reluctant to find a new profession, as interesting as (and these are just shots in the dark at respected hipster jobs) beekeeping, knitting, or tending bar might be. At the moment, I am not so enmeshed in the hipster community that this is an urgent problem, but a little advanced planning never hurts. I could, for example, construct a story in which I live off a trust fund and moonlight there to amuse myself, or tell a half-truth: that I work in an office filled with fascinating people and spend most of my time on the phone.
This problem will not be solved in a day (they rarely are!) but I hope to have worked out something by the time I'm invited to my first hipster party, during which such topics are sure to arise.
In other news, John and I have officially made up. He apologized, I apologized, we manfully shook hands, consumed several alcoholic beverages together, then leered drunkenly at the bar's female patrons. I have not, however, yet told him of this blog. You see, in the recent past, John started a blog, and I somewhat childishly (or so it seems now; at the time, it was all quite amusing) undermined him in the comments section as often as possible, relying on my vast knowledge as his closest friend for most of the past decade. I fear should he learn of this blog, he may be inclined to do the same to me.
John, if you should stumble across this, please accept my humble apologies for my juvenile behavior regarding your blog, and let me remind you of your wonderfully frank advice to me at the time, "Don't be an asshole."
Unresolved questions:
1. The title of my blog.
2. Animal Collective.
3. Suitable hipster professions.
Newly resolved:
1. Hipster-approved cold weather wear. A pea coat has been purchased, and is proving quite warm. Thank you, Anonymous!
2. John. I have forgiven him.
Now, having laid out ample cause for alarm, I hasten to add that the job is not all bad. In fact, aside from the disdain with which the public holds the profession, it is scarcely bad at all. The hours are flexible, the pay decent, and once one has mastered one's fear of rejection, it's not particularly difficult. The most appealing part of the telemarketing, however, is the colorful characters with whom one interacts on a daily basis. I do not speak of the sad sacks whom we call, but those worthies with whom we work. As alluded to above, they are artists--actors between parts, painters between grants, directors between producers--sweet, sassy, hardworking single mothers drawn in by the flexible hours, and, most enticing of all, those unambitious nonconformists whom, for whatever reason, are simply not cut out for other work.
One such telemarketer, whom I know only as "Tex," wears a cowboy hat and boots--with spurs!--in the office, every single day. He never speaks, either to me, or any of our fellow coworkers; in fact, the only time we hear his voice is when he makes sales calls, during which time he speaks crisp, unaccented English. All in all, he is enveloped in an impenetrable shroud of mystery that I find quite intriguing. Granted, this mystery may well be solved when he brings in a six shooter and uses us as target practice, but until such a time, I consider him a delicious distraction from the daily monotony.
There is also a shared camradrie between us, and a reckless spirit which finds its outlet in various games and contests we employ to help pass the time. For example, in our office, Talk Like A Pirate Day is not just a wry Internet phenomenon, but rather an opportunity to see who can employ more pirate vernacular during a sales call. Or there was the day where, at John's rather brilliant suggestion, we adopted fake Indian accents for all our calls. Granted, this wound up exposing a virulent strain of racism in our office, and left our sales efforts in shambles, but in terms of livening up our day, it was entirely successful!
But I digress. The point is, if I wish to be a respected member of the hipster community, I lack a suitable job. I am also, for all the above reasons, reluctant to find a new profession, as interesting as (and these are just shots in the dark at respected hipster jobs) beekeeping, knitting, or tending bar might be. At the moment, I am not so enmeshed in the hipster community that this is an urgent problem, but a little advanced planning never hurts. I could, for example, construct a story in which I live off a trust fund and moonlight there to amuse myself, or tell a half-truth: that I work in an office filled with fascinating people and spend most of my time on the phone.
This problem will not be solved in a day (they rarely are!) but I hope to have worked out something by the time I'm invited to my first hipster party, during which such topics are sure to arise.
In other news, John and I have officially made up. He apologized, I apologized, we manfully shook hands, consumed several alcoholic beverages together, then leered drunkenly at the bar's female patrons. I have not, however, yet told him of this blog. You see, in the recent past, John started a blog, and I somewhat childishly (or so it seems now; at the time, it was all quite amusing) undermined him in the comments section as often as possible, relying on my vast knowledge as his closest friend for most of the past decade. I fear should he learn of this blog, he may be inclined to do the same to me.
John, if you should stumble across this, please accept my humble apologies for my juvenile behavior regarding your blog, and let me remind you of your wonderfully frank advice to me at the time, "Don't be an asshole."
Unresolved questions:
1. The title of my blog.
2. Animal Collective.
3. Suitable hipster professions.
Newly resolved:
1. Hipster-approved cold weather wear. A pea coat has been purchased, and is proving quite warm. Thank you, Anonymous!
2. John. I have forgiven him.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Williamsburg, at last!
Fortified against the cold by my new peat coat, and against my own insecurities by my introduction to hipster music yesterday, I boldly sallied forth for Williamsburg this morning. My plan: go to a local coffee shop, crack open a hipster-approved tome (in this case, Infinite Jest, which by happenstance, I had already been reading) and wait to be noticed by my fellow hipsters.
I don't need to tell you, dear readers, just how excited the prospect of venturing into the breeding ground of hip made me, but like a gladiator heading into combat, I steeled my churning emotions and affected a disaffected reserve. I was tested the instant I reached the L train subway platform at Union Square. Oh the outfits! Oh the conversations! Oh the genuinely disaffected looks! It was almost more than I could bear, and I very nearly left for safer grounds. Then I recalled my two muses who had set me on this improbable quest. Would they have turned and run at this majestic sight? Would they have hyperventilated when an elfin girl with a bowl cut and a sailor's top stood next to them? Or would they have issued a veiled jab at her clearly store-bought clogs, then, superiority firmly established, taken her back to their artist's loft to engage in ironically conceived carnal acts with her?
The answer, I told myself, was self-evident, and fortified by the thought of my hipster progenitors, I managed to remain on the platform, board the train, and exit unscathed at Lorimer (I could not, however, bring myself to speak to the ingenue who stood beside me. I am a fast learner, my friends, but not that fast!) Upon emerging from that dim subway station, I felt I knew somewhat of the dark yearning felt by Milton's Lucifer upon viewing Eden for the first time. I coveted all I saw, smelt and heard, and stood, transfixed, on the top step of the staircase. If you have not had the pleasure of visiting Williamsburg, I dare not expose the limits of my own prose in trying to describe it; if you have, then you have undoubtedly already been transported in your mind to that magical place by the mere sight of its glorious name: Williamsburg!
It took repeated jostling from the commuters behind me to finally beak me out of my reverie, and I began to walk to my pre-selected coffee shop. Telling myself, "Fake it until you make it," I sullenly ordered coffee from a tattooed, pierced, thoroughly unpolite barista whom I'm sure I would have found attractive had she not been so intimidating. To my great good fortune, I was able to acquire a table immediately, and, coffee steaming in front of me, I cracked open Infinite Jest, and began to read. Or rather, tried to read. I was too excited by my surroundings, and resorted instead to furtively spying on my fellow hipsters. None, thankfully, were also reading Infinite Jest (although I suppose it may have afforded a natural opportunity to converse!), but I did note with interest their reading material: three Lethems, one DeLillo, and two volumes of McSweeney's.
Suddenly, I became aware that a pack of lean hipsters who had already picked up their orders were lingering by my table on their way out. I must have caught their eyes! Nervously, I turned the page, and pretended to be reading, as I listened intently to their conversation.
"I fucking hate people who start reading books just because the author died," said one to snickers.
Disaster! Oh, they had cut me to the quick! The truth was, I had entirely forgotten that morning about the tragic end of David Foster Wallace; even I, with my limited understanding of hipster code, would have known better than to have brought him of all people. My next actions were, to put it mildly, unfortunate. If only I'd taken the time to properly think out a plausible excuse--that I had started the book prior to David Foster Wallace's untimely demise, for example, or that I was the assistant teacher in a course on modern literature, or better yet, stay silent and take my licking like a man--but instead, I found myself speaking, and, horror of horrors, indignantly!
"I am not reading Infinite Jest; I am rereading it, and given the horrific end David Foster Wallace came to, I doubt there are many fans of his who aren't rereading his oeuvre."
I have, you see, a rather sharp tongue when I feel I've been attacked, and the instant the words left my mouth, I knew I had made a terrible mistake. I longed to drop to the floor and cower at their feet, begging for forgiveness, but I quickly saw that our little tete-a-tete had drawn the attention of our fellow coffee drinkers, including the hyperhip barista, and I realized that my only hope of avoiding complete and utter humiliation was to remain on the offensive.
"Well?" I asked, manfully crossing my arms, even as I silently pleaded with my eyes for him to take pity on me. Sensing my weakness, he curled his upper lip disdainfully.
"Oh, really?" he said with a slow, studied drawl that was devastating in its hipness. "So you already know how it ends, then, right? What'd you think?"
Once again, I found myself foolishly reacting to his question as if he were, say, John, or another of my less hip peers, with whom I was having an ordinary conversation.
"I think," I started slowly, picking up pace as I continued, "I think it's an affecting meditation on man's need to be known for who he truly is, and on his struggle to survive once he learns, as he must, that such a thing can never take place."
This paused the hipster only a nanosecond before he responded, "That doesn't even mean anything. You obviously haven't read it at all." He looked at me disdainfully, then uttered one more word before he and his posse turned and left: "Poseur."
The swiftness of his strike left me speechless, and I focused all my energies on steeling my face, knowing that all eyes were upon me. With a trembling hand, I reached for my coffee and took a loud sip, attempting to signal to my peers--or more accurately, my betters--that the show, such as it was, was over. I hoped for nothing so much as a moment of quiet in which to compose myself before I retreated home, tail between my legs. My wish, predictably, was not granted. No sooner than I had turned my sightless gaze back to that loathsome book than I became aware of yet another figure at my side.
What horror awaits me now, I thought to myself, and hunched down further over the book, hoping to create such a miniscule target that he or she would not bother with me.
"I thought that was really insightful, what you said," said the figure next to me. I looked up in shock. She--for it was unmistakably a she--was swarthy and stout, and even through her overstuffed winter coat, I could see that she had entered the gargantuan stage of pregnancy. In short, she was tragically unhip by the standards of Williamsburg, but in that moment, I could not have been more grateful than if it had been Kerouac himself.
"That's very kind of you to say," I responded, "But obviously, I was quite mistaken. Why else would he have taken such offense?"
To my surprise, she laughed, then patted me companionably on the arm. "You're funny," she said. "Are you some kind of professor?"
"No, no," I answered, somewhat bemused, "Just an amateur enthusiast."
"Well, thanks for the entertainment," she said, then patting me again on the arm, she waddled majestically out the door.
Though I can scarce countenance it, it seemed as though this kindly woman believed that I had gotten the better of the exchange! I knew that her opinion would carry little to no weight in the hipster community, but did the other witnesses think the same? There expressions were, to a man, inscrutable, and for one wild moment, I considered whether I ought to canvass the shop to find out the truth, but quickly realized such a move would seem desperate. Instead, I nervously finished my coffee, then left for home.
The ride back felt quite different from the trip out, as I was drained from the day's exertions, but thanks to that fertile coffee shop denizen, I was if not optimistic, then at least satisfied with the day's events. I had survived a day in the wilds of Williamsburg, and if I had suffered a defeat, at least it had not been a unanimous one!
I don't need to tell you, dear readers, just how excited the prospect of venturing into the breeding ground of hip made me, but like a gladiator heading into combat, I steeled my churning emotions and affected a disaffected reserve. I was tested the instant I reached the L train subway platform at Union Square. Oh the outfits! Oh the conversations! Oh the genuinely disaffected looks! It was almost more than I could bear, and I very nearly left for safer grounds. Then I recalled my two muses who had set me on this improbable quest. Would they have turned and run at this majestic sight? Would they have hyperventilated when an elfin girl with a bowl cut and a sailor's top stood next to them? Or would they have issued a veiled jab at her clearly store-bought clogs, then, superiority firmly established, taken her back to their artist's loft to engage in ironically conceived carnal acts with her?
The answer, I told myself, was self-evident, and fortified by the thought of my hipster progenitors, I managed to remain on the platform, board the train, and exit unscathed at Lorimer (I could not, however, bring myself to speak to the ingenue who stood beside me. I am a fast learner, my friends, but not that fast!) Upon emerging from that dim subway station, I felt I knew somewhat of the dark yearning felt by Milton's Lucifer upon viewing Eden for the first time. I coveted all I saw, smelt and heard, and stood, transfixed, on the top step of the staircase. If you have not had the pleasure of visiting Williamsburg, I dare not expose the limits of my own prose in trying to describe it; if you have, then you have undoubtedly already been transported in your mind to that magical place by the mere sight of its glorious name: Williamsburg!
It took repeated jostling from the commuters behind me to finally beak me out of my reverie, and I began to walk to my pre-selected coffee shop. Telling myself, "Fake it until you make it," I sullenly ordered coffee from a tattooed, pierced, thoroughly unpolite barista whom I'm sure I would have found attractive had she not been so intimidating. To my great good fortune, I was able to acquire a table immediately, and, coffee steaming in front of me, I cracked open Infinite Jest, and began to read. Or rather, tried to read. I was too excited by my surroundings, and resorted instead to furtively spying on my fellow hipsters. None, thankfully, were also reading Infinite Jest (although I suppose it may have afforded a natural opportunity to converse!), but I did note with interest their reading material: three Lethems, one DeLillo, and two volumes of McSweeney's.
Suddenly, I became aware that a pack of lean hipsters who had already picked up their orders were lingering by my table on their way out. I must have caught their eyes! Nervously, I turned the page, and pretended to be reading, as I listened intently to their conversation.
"I fucking hate people who start reading books just because the author died," said one to snickers.
Disaster! Oh, they had cut me to the quick! The truth was, I had entirely forgotten that morning about the tragic end of David Foster Wallace; even I, with my limited understanding of hipster code, would have known better than to have brought him of all people. My next actions were, to put it mildly, unfortunate. If only I'd taken the time to properly think out a plausible excuse--that I had started the book prior to David Foster Wallace's untimely demise, for example, or that I was the assistant teacher in a course on modern literature, or better yet, stay silent and take my licking like a man--but instead, I found myself speaking, and, horror of horrors, indignantly!
"I am not reading Infinite Jest; I am rereading it, and given the horrific end David Foster Wallace came to, I doubt there are many fans of his who aren't rereading his oeuvre."
I have, you see, a rather sharp tongue when I feel I've been attacked, and the instant the words left my mouth, I knew I had made a terrible mistake. I longed to drop to the floor and cower at their feet, begging for forgiveness, but I quickly saw that our little tete-a-tete had drawn the attention of our fellow coffee drinkers, including the hyperhip barista, and I realized that my only hope of avoiding complete and utter humiliation was to remain on the offensive.
"Well?" I asked, manfully crossing my arms, even as I silently pleaded with my eyes for him to take pity on me. Sensing my weakness, he curled his upper lip disdainfully.
"Oh, really?" he said with a slow, studied drawl that was devastating in its hipness. "So you already know how it ends, then, right? What'd you think?"
Once again, I found myself foolishly reacting to his question as if he were, say, John, or another of my less hip peers, with whom I was having an ordinary conversation.
"I think," I started slowly, picking up pace as I continued, "I think it's an affecting meditation on man's need to be known for who he truly is, and on his struggle to survive once he learns, as he must, that such a thing can never take place."
This paused the hipster only a nanosecond before he responded, "That doesn't even mean anything. You obviously haven't read it at all." He looked at me disdainfully, then uttered one more word before he and his posse turned and left: "Poseur."
The swiftness of his strike left me speechless, and I focused all my energies on steeling my face, knowing that all eyes were upon me. With a trembling hand, I reached for my coffee and took a loud sip, attempting to signal to my peers--or more accurately, my betters--that the show, such as it was, was over. I hoped for nothing so much as a moment of quiet in which to compose myself before I retreated home, tail between my legs. My wish, predictably, was not granted. No sooner than I had turned my sightless gaze back to that loathsome book than I became aware of yet another figure at my side.
What horror awaits me now, I thought to myself, and hunched down further over the book, hoping to create such a miniscule target that he or she would not bother with me.
"I thought that was really insightful, what you said," said the figure next to me. I looked up in shock. She--for it was unmistakably a she--was swarthy and stout, and even through her overstuffed winter coat, I could see that she had entered the gargantuan stage of pregnancy. In short, she was tragically unhip by the standards of Williamsburg, but in that moment, I could not have been more grateful than if it had been Kerouac himself.
"That's very kind of you to say," I responded, "But obviously, I was quite mistaken. Why else would he have taken such offense?"
To my surprise, she laughed, then patted me companionably on the arm. "You're funny," she said. "Are you some kind of professor?"
"No, no," I answered, somewhat bemused, "Just an amateur enthusiast."
"Well, thanks for the entertainment," she said, then patting me again on the arm, she waddled majestically out the door.
Though I can scarce countenance it, it seemed as though this kindly woman believed that I had gotten the better of the exchange! I knew that her opinion would carry little to no weight in the hipster community, but did the other witnesses think the same? There expressions were, to a man, inscrutable, and for one wild moment, I considered whether I ought to canvass the shop to find out the truth, but quickly realized such a move would seem desperate. Instead, I nervously finished my coffee, then left for home.
The ride back felt quite different from the trip out, as I was drained from the day's exertions, but thanks to that fertile coffee shop denizen, I was if not optimistic, then at least satisfied with the day's events. I had survived a day in the wilds of Williamsburg, and if I had suffered a defeat, at least it had not been a unanimous one!
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Hipster Music
Dear readers, I find myself increasingly frustrated. Don't get me wrong: I was not surprised to discover that I had not heard of any of the bands whose albums comprised Pitchfork's Top 100 Albums of 2008. Given that I did not buy a single album in 2008, or attend a single concert, it would have been a rather miraculous occurrence if I'd had. In fact, I believe the last album I purchased was Billy Joel's Fantasies and Delusions in 2001 (a rather pretty collection of classical piano compositions, performed by the estimable Richard Joo) during my Young Republican days. I did, however, expect to have known more than a paltry handful of their Top 100 Albums of the '90s, given that high school was for me the time I was most current with independent music. You see, the crowd with whom I "rolled" were primarily Rastafarians, who took music quite seriously. Imagine my shock when I saw that none of the Rasti's music was represented by Pitchfork!
Not Satta Massagana by The Abyssinians in 1993, whose titular track verily served as reggae's national anthem; not Alpha Blondy's Yitzhak Rabin from '98, which secured Blondy's place as Marley's clear successor (yes, THAT Marley!); not even Fishbone's seminal album from 1991, The Reality of My Surroundings . . . Obviously, the fault lies with me, and I shall have to forget everything I have known about music to make room for Pitchfork. In truth, this thought filled me with a certain excitement--to discover 100 albums better than those above!--but then I tried listening to the first band mentioned on Pitchfork, Animal Collective. While consisting of pretty enough melodies and rhythmic beats that do indeed "move jah," (many apologies, dear reader, but when the spirit moves jah, one must comply. Oh dear, and there I go again!) goes on and on unyieldingly, to no apparent purpose. I am quite clearly missing something, and given my lack of knowledge of the Best Albums of the 90's, I suspect it is the requisite background.
So I shall begin a sampling of Pitchfork's Best Albums of the 70's (many of whose artists I am reassuringly familiar), and work my way up from there. Yes, the burden is heavy, but failure is simply not an option! I will become an aficionado of hipster music or die trying.
P.S. I have ignored several attempts by John to hang out this weekend, in part because I still feel somewhat peevish about his rude behavior, and in part because I am still unclear about what to wear in the cold weather, although it does seem that this might be suitable, as its title contains the word "hipster." Thoughts?
Unresolved Questions:
1. The title of my blog.
2. Hipster-approved cold weather wear.
3. John.
4. Animal Collective.
Newly Resolved Question:
1. Tight-fitting pants. According to friend of the blog, Cheering Anon, not all tight pants are uncomfortable! Under his/her advisement, I shall attempt to find a pair that is not quite so constricting.
Not Satta Massagana by The Abyssinians in 1993, whose titular track verily served as reggae's national anthem; not Alpha Blondy's Yitzhak Rabin from '98, which secured Blondy's place as Marley's clear successor (yes, THAT Marley!); not even Fishbone's seminal album from 1991, The Reality of My Surroundings . . . Obviously, the fault lies with me, and I shall have to forget everything I have known about music to make room for Pitchfork. In truth, this thought filled me with a certain excitement--to discover 100 albums better than those above!--but then I tried listening to the first band mentioned on Pitchfork, Animal Collective. While consisting of pretty enough melodies and rhythmic beats that do indeed "move jah," (many apologies, dear reader, but when the spirit moves jah, one must comply. Oh dear, and there I go again!) goes on and on unyieldingly, to no apparent purpose. I am quite clearly missing something, and given my lack of knowledge of the Best Albums of the 90's, I suspect it is the requisite background.
So I shall begin a sampling of Pitchfork's Best Albums of the 70's (many of whose artists I am reassuringly familiar), and work my way up from there. Yes, the burden is heavy, but failure is simply not an option! I will become an aficionado of hipster music or die trying.
P.S. I have ignored several attempts by John to hang out this weekend, in part because I still feel somewhat peevish about his rude behavior, and in part because I am still unclear about what to wear in the cold weather, although it does seem that this might be suitable, as its title contains the word "hipster." Thoughts?
Unresolved Questions:
1. The title of my blog.
2. Hipster-approved cold weather wear.
3. John.
4. Animal Collective.
Newly Resolved Question:
1. Tight-fitting pants. According to friend of the blog, Cheering Anon, not all tight pants are uncomfortable! Under his/her advisement, I shall attempt to find a pair that is not quite so constricting.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Snow Day
I had planned on visiting Williamsburg today, but it is snowing. Normally, this would be no impediment to one of my sturdy German stock, but as I have not quite decided how a hipster dresses for cold weather, I thought it best to hold off, rather than freeze to death on Bedford Avenue (although that does sound quite romantic, if perhaps better suited for the Sensible movement than the Hipster!) or, worse, forfeit the approbation of my peers through unmannered dress. I suspect some sort of layering is involved rather than an oversized, down-filled coat, but how to know for sure? I suppose I could go undercover as an average square, take notes, then return home to plan my cold-weather outfit, but oh the humiliation were someone to recognize me later!
I shall simply have to wait for warmer weather, then return to the Salvation Army by Union Square and implore Edward for yet more guidance. In the meantime, the hipster diet is taking something of a toll on me, and I find I have a desperate craving for Ho-Hos and hot cocoa. Instead, I shall whet my appetite with food for the soul: music! Specifically, such music as is prescribed by Pitchfork. What auditory delights await, I wonder?
Special accolades go to reader E.K. Wimmer, for resolving some of my vexing problems. The revised list below:
Unresolved Questions:
1. Tight-fitting pants.
2. The title of my blog.
3. Hipster-approved cold weather wear.
4. John.
Resolved Questions:
1. Blogs. They do blog; they simply do not call themselves hipsters.
2. God. They do believe in God, but do not talk about it.
3. Star Wars. Some are aficionados; some are not. Best not be the first to bring it up.
I am sensing a trend here; perhaps to be a hipster is to partake of everything, yet discuss nothing?
I shall simply have to wait for warmer weather, then return to the Salvation Army by Union Square and implore Edward for yet more guidance. In the meantime, the hipster diet is taking something of a toll on me, and I find I have a desperate craving for Ho-Hos and hot cocoa. Instead, I shall whet my appetite with food for the soul: music! Specifically, such music as is prescribed by Pitchfork. What auditory delights await, I wonder?
Special accolades go to reader E.K. Wimmer, for resolving some of my vexing problems. The revised list below:
Unresolved Questions:
1. Tight-fitting pants.
2. The title of my blog.
3. Hipster-approved cold weather wear.
4. John.
Resolved Questions:
1. Blogs. They do blog; they simply do not call themselves hipsters.
2. God. They do believe in God, but do not talk about it.
3. Star Wars. Some are aficionados; some are not. Best not be the first to bring it up.
I am sensing a trend here; perhaps to be a hipster is to partake of everything, yet discuss nothing?
Two Steps Forward . . .
I apologize for my prolonged absence, dear readers. I have had my hipster worldview shaken recently, primarily due to the foul-mouthed slanders of my erstwhile best friend, John. I had alluded to my new outlook on life both verbally and over email, but breakfast yesterday morning was the first time I had seen him since my transformation. His response was devastating.
"A gross caricature of a hipster."
"If they let you hang out with them, it will be because they're making fun of you."
"They're all douchebags anyway; why would you want to be like them?"
The worst of it was the appearance of complete and utter sincerity. It was as if he were genuinely worried that I--I!--would be viciously mocked by those whom I most admire. Needless to say, I left at once, leaving my coffee undrunk and Menthol cigarette (a new habit I've acquired at dear Edward's suggestion) unsmoked. The subway ride home was torturous, as I became convinced that everyone was snickering at me. Looking in the window of the subway car for reassurance, I saw not the dashing hipster who had left that morning, but an overweight buffoon pathetically trying too hard. Unable to look at myself any further, I sat down, removed my keffiah from my neck and laid it modestly over my suddenly too-tight jeans, and crossed my arms protectively over my chest, but still, I could not shake the silent judgment of my fellow commuters. Within seconds of arriving at home, I found myself in front of the mirror, razor in my trembling hand, ready to remove my greatest ambition: the start of my handlebar mustache.
No sooner had I laid blade to flesh than the phone rang. Reluctantly, I set down the razor and answered. It was John, imploring me not to hang up. Silently, I listened as he apologized and explained that I had actually looked amazing and that his actions were prompted solely by jealousy and fear of losing me as a best friend.
The instant he said those words, I realized just how gullible I had been to believe him in the first place. Of course I looked smashing! Would Saint Edward have steered me wrong? Suddenly I could no longer fathom even thinking about shaving off my dear, fledgling handlebar, and I also, as you will no doubt surmise, grew quite angry at John for having provoked such a crisis in me. As I was about to hang up on him (without saying anything, naturally) he piqued my interest by contritely offering a few tips to aid me in my quest:
1. Not to call myself a hipster. He said while he knows it's confusing, hipsters do not call themselves hipsters; they call others hipsters, usually as an insult. This makes a certain amount of sense to me, as it would explain the dearth of official "hipster" blogs, as well as the "Die Hipster Scum" t-shirt that Dear Edward picked out for me. In terms of my continued blogging, however, this raises some troubling questions, as the title of my blog is, after all, "Confessions of a Self-Identified Hipster." If, as John posits, hipsters do not call themselves hipsters, my blog title is essentially an advertisement to the fact that I am not a hipster. What a conundrum! Obviously, this question will not be answered in a day, and I welcome any suggestions from you, my loyal audience.
2. Wear clothes more suited to my scale, and the weather. Obviously, he was mistaken on the first front; Edward is a saint, and I trust his clothing choices implicitly. Not to mention, I have a strong feeling that my new diet of Menthols and coffee will have a staggering impact on my girth. As for the second, however, he is quite right: yesterday was too chilly to be walking about in only jeans, a t-shirt, and a keffiah. This, however, raises yet another urgent question: what do hipsters wear when it's cold?
3. Let the hipsters come to me. He warned me against seeming too eager, which, as you astute readers no doubt recall, is a lesson I have already learned. Still, it was sweet of him to remind me.
I have not yet decided whether to forgive John or not. He is a dear friend, but this is not the first time he has let his jealousy get the better of him, and while I am hardly a shrinking violet, a man has his limits. On the other hand, I can't really blame him for being jealous. I do cut a rather striking figure in my get-up, and after all, even I was jealous of the first hipsters I had occasion to meet.
As to being afraid of losing me to my fellow hipsters, frankly, he ought to be concerned. I'm sure those worthies show nothing but the tenderest compassion for their fellow hipsters, unlike John, who can't seem to help himself from lashing out at me. Once I have joined their ranks, I'll probably be too busy attending independent music concerts and drinking "PBR" to hang out with the likes of him. But still, he is rather sweet . . . When he's not denigrating all that I hold dear, that is.
At times, I feel like I am in an abusive relationship.
I think I shall table the John decision until further notice, leaving me with one question answered, but several more sprung up in its place.
Unresolved questions:
1. God.
2. Star Wars.
3. Tight-fitting pants.
4. The title of my blog.
5. Hipster-approved cold weather wear.
6. John.
Resolved Questions.
1. Blogs. All credit to John for this one. They do blog; they simply do not call themselves hipsters.
"A gross caricature of a hipster."
"If they let you hang out with them, it will be because they're making fun of you."
"They're all douchebags anyway; why would you want to be like them?"
The worst of it was the appearance of complete and utter sincerity. It was as if he were genuinely worried that I--I!--would be viciously mocked by those whom I most admire. Needless to say, I left at once, leaving my coffee undrunk and Menthol cigarette (a new habit I've acquired at dear Edward's suggestion) unsmoked. The subway ride home was torturous, as I became convinced that everyone was snickering at me. Looking in the window of the subway car for reassurance, I saw not the dashing hipster who had left that morning, but an overweight buffoon pathetically trying too hard. Unable to look at myself any further, I sat down, removed my keffiah from my neck and laid it modestly over my suddenly too-tight jeans, and crossed my arms protectively over my chest, but still, I could not shake the silent judgment of my fellow commuters. Within seconds of arriving at home, I found myself in front of the mirror, razor in my trembling hand, ready to remove my greatest ambition: the start of my handlebar mustache.
No sooner had I laid blade to flesh than the phone rang. Reluctantly, I set down the razor and answered. It was John, imploring me not to hang up. Silently, I listened as he apologized and explained that I had actually looked amazing and that his actions were prompted solely by jealousy and fear of losing me as a best friend.
The instant he said those words, I realized just how gullible I had been to believe him in the first place. Of course I looked smashing! Would Saint Edward have steered me wrong? Suddenly I could no longer fathom even thinking about shaving off my dear, fledgling handlebar, and I also, as you will no doubt surmise, grew quite angry at John for having provoked such a crisis in me. As I was about to hang up on him (without saying anything, naturally) he piqued my interest by contritely offering a few tips to aid me in my quest:
1. Not to call myself a hipster. He said while he knows it's confusing, hipsters do not call themselves hipsters; they call others hipsters, usually as an insult. This makes a certain amount of sense to me, as it would explain the dearth of official "hipster" blogs, as well as the "Die Hipster Scum" t-shirt that Dear Edward picked out for me. In terms of my continued blogging, however, this raises some troubling questions, as the title of my blog is, after all, "Confessions of a Self-Identified Hipster." If, as John posits, hipsters do not call themselves hipsters, my blog title is essentially an advertisement to the fact that I am not a hipster. What a conundrum! Obviously, this question will not be answered in a day, and I welcome any suggestions from you, my loyal audience.
2. Wear clothes more suited to my scale, and the weather. Obviously, he was mistaken on the first front; Edward is a saint, and I trust his clothing choices implicitly. Not to mention, I have a strong feeling that my new diet of Menthols and coffee will have a staggering impact on my girth. As for the second, however, he is quite right: yesterday was too chilly to be walking about in only jeans, a t-shirt, and a keffiah. This, however, raises yet another urgent question: what do hipsters wear when it's cold?
3. Let the hipsters come to me. He warned me against seeming too eager, which, as you astute readers no doubt recall, is a lesson I have already learned. Still, it was sweet of him to remind me.
I have not yet decided whether to forgive John or not. He is a dear friend, but this is not the first time he has let his jealousy get the better of him, and while I am hardly a shrinking violet, a man has his limits. On the other hand, I can't really blame him for being jealous. I do cut a rather striking figure in my get-up, and after all, even I was jealous of the first hipsters I had occasion to meet.
As to being afraid of losing me to my fellow hipsters, frankly, he ought to be concerned. I'm sure those worthies show nothing but the tenderest compassion for their fellow hipsters, unlike John, who can't seem to help himself from lashing out at me. Once I have joined their ranks, I'll probably be too busy attending independent music concerts and drinking "PBR" to hang out with the likes of him. But still, he is rather sweet . . . When he's not denigrating all that I hold dear, that is.
At times, I feel like I am in an abusive relationship.
I think I shall table the John decision until further notice, leaving me with one question answered, but several more sprung up in its place.
Unresolved questions:
1. God.
2. Star Wars.
3. Tight-fitting pants.
4. The title of my blog.
5. Hipster-approved cold weather wear.
6. John.
Resolved Questions.
1. Blogs. All credit to John for this one. They do blog; they simply do not call themselves hipsters.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
My First Fumbling Step Towards Hipsterdom
Well, all my hours of hard work appear to have paid off! Before I get to the crowning achievement of the last 48 hours (the details of which still bring a delighted smile to my face), some back story:
Obviously, in order to be a hipster, one must look the part. Upon awaking, I immediately began to head to the breeding ground of all things hipster, Williamsburg, to buy the requisite attire when a sudden thought knotted my stomach painfully and ground me to a halt: Did I really want to be introduced to the hipster society in my current attire? Looking down at my crisp white dress shirt, which I had tucked into my relaxed fit, boot-cut Levis, I knew the answer, and elected instead for the safer grounds of Manhattan.
I knew enough to frequent only thrift stores, but which ones? I decided to stop at every one I passed, and rely on the goodwill of the shopkeepers to help me in my quest--a decision that initially seemed ill-fated. My polite inquiries--"Have you clothing suitable for a hipster?" "Do hipsters frequent your establishment?"--were met with uniform derision, until I finally found my patron saint of clothing, Edward, at the Salvation Army near Union Square! He immediately took me under his wing, and within minutes, I was clothed in tight black jeans that clung to me from waist to ankle, a grey t-shirt which read "Die Hipster Scum" (my Edward assured me it was quite "ironic"), and a unique scarf known as a keffiyeh, which Edward informed me could be worn either over the head or around one's neck. With trembling anticipation, I tried on my new outfit and practically ran to the mirror to see the result (I say practically because the jeans somewhat impeded my normal range of motion).
I admit, at first I was a bit disheartened. To my untrained eye, both the jeans and shirt appeared too form-fitting (I am rather grand in scale, you see, and I feared such tight clothes might draw attention to my girth), and I started to strategically drape the keffiyeh about my person to mask some of the excess weight. No sooner had I started, though, then Edward set me straight! He took the keffiyeh, arranged it around my neck in a dashing manner, assured me that despite my size, I would fit in quite well (although he did recommend a diet of cigarettes and coffee, which, in addition to being authentic hipster, would slim me down "in no time"). As if this sage advice were not enough, he then revealed a pair of beaten up blue Converse from behind his back to complete my ensemble!
I do not go to far to call Edward a Godsend, I think, although such a word might be inappropriate for a hipster if they are all, as I suspect, either agnostic or atheist. But I digress! Edward allowed me to wear the clothing out of the store, and I emerged from my former corporate cocoon a frail hipster butterfly, ready to take my first trembling flight!
The results were dramatic. I invited no end of looks, undoubtedly due to the unhipness of Union Square; in Williamsburg, I have no doubt that I would scarcely have stood out at all! But this, dear reader, was not the moment which I foreshadowed at the start of this post; no, that moment came nearly a half hour later, as I walked down the subway platform. Walking proved a bit difficult, as the pants were, I imagine, designed more for leaning against dirty bars and reclining on second-hand couches than actually walking, and as a result, I was a bit unsteady on my feet, stumbling occasionally in the crowded station. The clothing, however, inspired newfound confidence in me, and instead of offering my usual unhip apologies for kicking a stroller or trodding on an octogenarian's foot, I instead sneered derisively. After one such encounter with a day laborer of some sort, I heard the following phrase: "Rude hipster fuck."
At first, I did not dare to believe this oath was directed at me, and I stopped in my tracks, looking about in vain for the real hipster to whom it simply must have been directed. Spying no such person, it dawned on my that I was the rude hipster fuck of whom he spoke! I could scarcely contain my joy at this moment, and I am sad to say that I did not react nearly as well as I ought to have. Instead of curling my lip and tossing a casual yet devastating insult, I turned around, a huge smile lighting my face, thanked him profusely, and attempted to shake his hand. It was not, I confess, my proudest moment, and his subsequent shove, which sent me crashing to the ground in a heap, did nothing to salvage it. Nonetheless, I could not keep that same smile from returning the instant I rose and brushed myself off: "rude Hipster fuck!"
I shall file that away in my memory as the first of many trophies celebrating my progress towards hipsterdom! All in all, a resoundingly successful day!
Unresolved questions:
1. Blogs.
2. God.
3. Star Wars.
4. Tight-fitting pants: is there a trick to walking in them?
Obviously, in order to be a hipster, one must look the part. Upon awaking, I immediately began to head to the breeding ground of all things hipster, Williamsburg, to buy the requisite attire when a sudden thought knotted my stomach painfully and ground me to a halt: Did I really want to be introduced to the hipster society in my current attire? Looking down at my crisp white dress shirt, which I had tucked into my relaxed fit, boot-cut Levis, I knew the answer, and elected instead for the safer grounds of Manhattan.
I knew enough to frequent only thrift stores, but which ones? I decided to stop at every one I passed, and rely on the goodwill of the shopkeepers to help me in my quest--a decision that initially seemed ill-fated. My polite inquiries--"Have you clothing suitable for a hipster?" "Do hipsters frequent your establishment?"--were met with uniform derision, until I finally found my patron saint of clothing, Edward, at the Salvation Army near Union Square! He immediately took me under his wing, and within minutes, I was clothed in tight black jeans that clung to me from waist to ankle, a grey t-shirt which read "Die Hipster Scum" (my Edward assured me it was quite "ironic"), and a unique scarf known as a keffiyeh, which Edward informed me could be worn either over the head or around one's neck. With trembling anticipation, I tried on my new outfit and practically ran to the mirror to see the result (I say practically because the jeans somewhat impeded my normal range of motion).
I admit, at first I was a bit disheartened. To my untrained eye, both the jeans and shirt appeared too form-fitting (I am rather grand in scale, you see, and I feared such tight clothes might draw attention to my girth), and I started to strategically drape the keffiyeh about my person to mask some of the excess weight. No sooner had I started, though, then Edward set me straight! He took the keffiyeh, arranged it around my neck in a dashing manner, assured me that despite my size, I would fit in quite well (although he did recommend a diet of cigarettes and coffee, which, in addition to being authentic hipster, would slim me down "in no time"). As if this sage advice were not enough, he then revealed a pair of beaten up blue Converse from behind his back to complete my ensemble!
I do not go to far to call Edward a Godsend, I think, although such a word might be inappropriate for a hipster if they are all, as I suspect, either agnostic or atheist. But I digress! Edward allowed me to wear the clothing out of the store, and I emerged from my former corporate cocoon a frail hipster butterfly, ready to take my first trembling flight!
The results were dramatic. I invited no end of looks, undoubtedly due to the unhipness of Union Square; in Williamsburg, I have no doubt that I would scarcely have stood out at all! But this, dear reader, was not the moment which I foreshadowed at the start of this post; no, that moment came nearly a half hour later, as I walked down the subway platform. Walking proved a bit difficult, as the pants were, I imagine, designed more for leaning against dirty bars and reclining on second-hand couches than actually walking, and as a result, I was a bit unsteady on my feet, stumbling occasionally in the crowded station. The clothing, however, inspired newfound confidence in me, and instead of offering my usual unhip apologies for kicking a stroller or trodding on an octogenarian's foot, I instead sneered derisively. After one such encounter with a day laborer of some sort, I heard the following phrase: "Rude hipster fuck."
At first, I did not dare to believe this oath was directed at me, and I stopped in my tracks, looking about in vain for the real hipster to whom it simply must have been directed. Spying no such person, it dawned on my that I was the rude hipster fuck of whom he spoke! I could scarcely contain my joy at this moment, and I am sad to say that I did not react nearly as well as I ought to have. Instead of curling my lip and tossing a casual yet devastating insult, I turned around, a huge smile lighting my face, thanked him profusely, and attempted to shake his hand. It was not, I confess, my proudest moment, and his subsequent shove, which sent me crashing to the ground in a heap, did nothing to salvage it. Nonetheless, I could not keep that same smile from returning the instant I rose and brushed myself off: "rude Hipster fuck!"
I shall file that away in my memory as the first of many trophies celebrating my progress towards hipsterdom! All in all, a resoundingly successful day!
Unresolved questions:
1. Blogs.
2. God.
3. Star Wars.
4. Tight-fitting pants: is there a trick to walking in them?
A Steaming Pile of Victory! (with a side of handlebar mustache)
Thank God for wiki! Hm. God. Do hipsters believe in God(s)? If so, which? I wouldn't be surprised if they didn't--their lives seem so magnificent that they wouldn't need to think about Him/Her/It. At least while they're young, but doesn't everyone think about religion when they get old? Perhaps hipsters are immune to aging! Or, like Obi Wan, are able at will to transcend to another, more powerful (aka "cooler") plane. Star Wars! Yet another question about which wikiHow is disturbingly silent.
Well, I rather imagine my best bet is to avoid the subjects of God and Star Wars altogether when speaking with hipsters, and, if wikiHow is to be believed, stick with "independent" music prescribed by "Pitchfork."
But I digress! The purpose of this post was to publicly declare my commitment to developing the one trait that will ensure my entry into hipsterdom: the handlebar mustache! Even the two muses who have so inspired my pursuit were not hip enough to dare a handlebar; with such a bold move, victory is assured!
Unresolved questions
1. Blogs.
2. God.
3. Star Wars.
Well, I rather imagine my best bet is to avoid the subjects of God and Star Wars altogether when speaking with hipsters, and, if wikiHow is to be believed, stick with "independent" music prescribed by "Pitchfork."
But I digress! The purpose of this post was to publicly declare my commitment to developing the one trait that will ensure my entry into hipsterdom: the handlebar mustache! Even the two muses who have so inspired my pursuit were not hip enough to dare a handlebar; with such a bold move, victory is assured!
Unresolved questions
1. Blogs.
2. God.
3. Star Wars.
Apology of Hipsters
It has come to my attention that the majority of other bloggers posting about hipsters take a rather dim view of them (e.g., Fuck Hipsters, A Place to Laugh at Hipsters). Is this because hipsters do not blog, and thus are underrepresented? If so, I humbly submit this blog as the online hipster apology, and will attempt to reflect the hipster ethos in all its grandeur and majesty!
Unless, of course, hipsters don't blog because it's not hip, in which case, I may have made a rather serious mistake. If so, I offer my sincere apology to any hipsters reading this, and shall work twice as hard to establish my bona fides in the future!
Unless, of course, hipsters don't blog because it's not hip, in which case, I may have made a rather serious mistake. If so, I offer my sincere apology to any hipsters reading this, and shall work twice as hard to establish my bona fides in the future!
Genesis
In my 20-something odd years, I have identified with many different social groups--Young Republicans, Skinheads, Rastafaris, Black Panthers--but in the Hipsters, I believe I have found my true calling. It's more than just the casual disdain with which they hold outsiders, their finely honed senses of irony, or their deliciously tight-fitting trousers; it's their ironic detachment from the world itself. It hit me like a shot when I overheard the following exchange while standing on the subway platform at Wall Street:
Thin Hipster: "Yeah, it kind of sucks, but it's like, pretty funny too."
Thinner Hipster: "Totally."
Thin Hipster: "I mean, I'm losing one of my balls. To cancer. On my birthday."
Thinner Hipster: "Hilarious."
Thin Hipster: "I think I'm gonna put it in a jar on my bookshelf."
Thinner Hipster: "Awesome."
How restrained! How ironic! How hip! Suddenly my impeccably pressed Marc Jacobs suit, crisp, pin-striped D&G shirt, and double-windsored Gucci tie seemed crass and shallow. I wanted to rip them from my body, drop naked to my knees, and beg them, "Teach me! Mold me in your image, you noble Hipsters you!" Using a calming technique learned from my days as a Rasti, I mastered my emotion--it is never wise to seem too eager--and instead removed my jacket, slinging it rakishly over my shoulder. "Are you Hipsters?" I inquired politely. The thinner one took one look at me, then responded, "Whatever. Who are you supposed to be, Gordon Gekko?"
Unused as I was to the understatement which defines the Hipster aesthetic, I half-expected his friend to laugh appreciatively, as I did, or high-five him, as I attempted to do. Instead, his lip curled in a carefully mannered sneer, and he and his friend turned as one and walked to the other end of the subway platform.
I confess, I was momentarily disheartened by the failure of my first foray into the Hipster subculture, but as their precariously thin stork legs carried them away into the crowd like young, slouched Gods, I resolved to become one of them, or perish in the attempt.
Thin Hipster: "Yeah, it kind of sucks, but it's like, pretty funny too."
Thinner Hipster: "Totally."
Thin Hipster: "I mean, I'm losing one of my balls. To cancer. On my birthday."
Thinner Hipster: "Hilarious."
Thin Hipster: "I think I'm gonna put it in a jar on my bookshelf."
Thinner Hipster: "Awesome."
How restrained! How ironic! How hip! Suddenly my impeccably pressed Marc Jacobs suit, crisp, pin-striped D&G shirt, and double-windsored Gucci tie seemed crass and shallow. I wanted to rip them from my body, drop naked to my knees, and beg them, "Teach me! Mold me in your image, you noble Hipsters you!" Using a calming technique learned from my days as a Rasti, I mastered my emotion--it is never wise to seem too eager--and instead removed my jacket, slinging it rakishly over my shoulder. "Are you Hipsters?" I inquired politely. The thinner one took one look at me, then responded, "Whatever. Who are you supposed to be, Gordon Gekko?"
Unused as I was to the understatement which defines the Hipster aesthetic, I half-expected his friend to laugh appreciatively, as I did, or high-five him, as I attempted to do. Instead, his lip curled in a carefully mannered sneer, and he and his friend turned as one and walked to the other end of the subway platform.
I confess, I was momentarily disheartened by the failure of my first foray into the Hipster subculture, but as their precariously thin stork legs carried them away into the crowd like young, slouched Gods, I resolved to become one of them, or perish in the attempt.
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