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!
Showing posts with label Hipster. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hipster. Show all posts
Monday, January 12, 2009
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
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
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.
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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