But I think I've found something that will forever haunt me if it's not written in a cohesive thought, hence...to the blog cave! (Quite an accurate description of my room, I must say).
I went to a show at The Yard this past Saturday, and partook in the enjoyment of some indie rock, drank PBRs (I wasn't trying to be ironic, it was the only cheap beer they had), and gnashed on some chicken burritos. Also...I WAS SURROUNDED BY HIPSTERS.
Some of you may be wondering what a hipster is...how to explain? As my friend Aaron once put it, a hipster is someone who pays a lot of money to look like a homeless person. Here is the definition I lifted from Urban Dictionary.
Hipster:
I went to a show at The Yard this past Saturday, and partook in the enjoyment of some indie rock, drank PBRs (I wasn't trying to be ironic, it was the only cheap beer they had), and gnashed on some chicken burritos. Also...I WAS SURROUNDED BY HIPSTERS.
Some of you may be wondering what a hipster is...how to explain? As my friend Aaron once put it, a hipster is someone who pays a lot of money to look like a homeless person. Here is the definition I lifted from Urban Dictionary.
Hipster:
| Listens to bands that you have never heard of. Has hairstyle that can only be described as "complicated." (Most likely achieved by a minimum of one week not washing it.) Probably tattooed. Maybe gay. Definitely cooler than you. Reads Black Book, Nylon, and the Styles section of the New York Times. Drinks Pabst Blue Ribbon. Often. Complains. Always denies being a hipster. Hates the word. Probably living off parents money - and spends a great deal of it to look like they don't have any. Has friends and/or self cut hair. Dyes it frequently (black, white-blonde, etc. and until scalp bleeds). Has a closet full of clothing but usually wears same three things OVER AND OVER (most likely very tight black pants, scarf, and ironic tee-shirt). Chips off nail polish artfully after $50 manicure. Sleeps with everyone and talks about it at great volume in crowded coffee shops. Addicted to coffee, cigarettes (Parliaments, Kamel Reds, Lucky Strikes, etc.), and possibly cocaine. Claims to be in a band. Rehearsals consist of choosing outfits for next show and drinking PBR. Always on the list. Majors or majored in art, writing, or queer studies. Name-drops. May go by "Penny Lane," "Eleanor Rigby," etc. when drunk. On PBR | ||||||||||||||||||||||
A lot of people in these parts, who aren't hipsters, don't really like hipsters. When I first moved to NY, I didn't get all the hipster hate - so what if they dress differently? Who cares if they are pretentious and parade around posing as "artists"? Hipster-haters complain that they drive up rents here in the city, thus driving out lifelong residents while they laligag and let dad pay the rent. But, after attending The Yard this past weekend, I have realized there is more to it. These hipsters are kind of a bane on society and give hard-working, honest kids like myself a bad name. Allow me to explain.
First off, I didn't realize what I was in for before the show. As my bf and I drove to the venue in Park Slope, I noticed many many bikes chained to fences and street signs. "Wow, it feels like we're in Williamsburg," I noted. For anyone unfamiliar with Williamsburg, Brooklyn, the streets are INUNDATED with bikes and the hipsters that own them. Chrome litters the sidewalk in that neighborhood, and it's like you are walking in a scrap yard, and the bikes are all consumed in this metal-painted orgy, piled on top of each other and toppling into the streets, prepared to ruin some innocent driver's day.
So the bikes were upon us, strangling the street signs and fledgling baby trees with their chains. At the entrance, the attendant stamped the insides of our wrists. Why the insides of our wrists as opposed to the backs of our hands, I don't know, but I have realized that there is a good reason to stamp the back of the hand instead - because the ink can't get all over your skin and clothing as easily. Seriously hipsters, I don't know if you were trying to be ironic with the wrist stamping, but by the end of the night the ink had smeared on my legs and skirt. Tools.
When we made it inside, it soon became apparent that the bf and I were out of our element. A thick stench of B.O. hung on the air. Boys clad in scummy keds and green socks crept around with PBRs in hand. Girls stood hostile behind their bug-eye sunglasses and high-waisted shorts. In general, the crowd was just one giant ball of smell and ugly, of self-importance and hypocrisy.
The bf and I, who are by nature warm-hearted and open, realized that we would be making no friends there, and that is my general complaint after going to this show Saturday night. It's not like we were expecting to become best friends with anyone, but when I ask if this is the line for beer, I'd appreciate more than a grunt for response. If you bump into me, I'd like it if you could just look me in the eye and acknowledge that accidents happen, instead of shooting me a loathsome look. Get off your high-horse and ditch the "tortured artist" attitude, because if your idea of personal style is any reflection on your "art," whatever you "create" is ordinary and copied, thus you have no more cultural significance than I do.
And more on the hipster "personal" "style" - never have I seen so many tattered, threadbare and mismatched outfits in all my life. My bf compared many of the girls to Laura Ingalls and Little Orphan Annie because their dresses were literally disintegrating. It's all part of the hipster schtick to look like a poor and starving artist, but the jig is up when you are seen chatting away on your BlackBerry Pearl. There was even a girl decked out in a majorette uniform, complete with a coiffed camel toe. Um, let me just say this - I used to be a majorette and I was forced to strap myself in those lycra jumpsuits throughout high school...and it sucked. The uniform was uncomfortable and unflattering, and the fact that you, girly, voluntarily wore that ridiculous outfit makes a mockery of the suffering endured by all the poor majorette girls in the world.
As for the guys, their hairdos and beards were perfectly greased and uncombed, and their socks evinced all the colors of the rainbow - observe:
We made it out alive, in no small part due to the many beers we imbibed, but I am still thanking my lucky stars that I don't live in Williamsburg (though I'm sure the infestation will take over Bay Ridge by the year 2012).
Oh, and more bonus pics of moi and the crowd:
So the bikes were upon us, strangling the street signs and fledgling baby trees with their chains. At the entrance, the attendant stamped the insides of our wrists. Why the insides of our wrists as opposed to the backs of our hands, I don't know, but I have realized that there is a good reason to stamp the back of the hand instead - because the ink can't get all over your skin and clothing as easily. Seriously hipsters, I don't know if you were trying to be ironic with the wrist stamping, but by the end of the night the ink had smeared on my legs and skirt. Tools.
When we made it inside, it soon became apparent that the bf and I were out of our element. A thick stench of B.O. hung on the air. Boys clad in scummy keds and green socks crept around with PBRs in hand. Girls stood hostile behind their bug-eye sunglasses and high-waisted shorts. In general, the crowd was just one giant ball of smell and ugly, of self-importance and hypocrisy.
The bf and I, who are by nature warm-hearted and open, realized that we would be making no friends there, and that is my general complaint after going to this show Saturday night. It's not like we were expecting to become best friends with anyone, but when I ask if this is the line for beer, I'd appreciate more than a grunt for response. If you bump into me, I'd like it if you could just look me in the eye and acknowledge that accidents happen, instead of shooting me a loathsome look. Get off your high-horse and ditch the "tortured artist" attitude, because if your idea of personal style is any reflection on your "art," whatever you "create" is ordinary and copied, thus you have no more cultural significance than I do.
And more on the hipster "personal" "style" - never have I seen so many tattered, threadbare and mismatched outfits in all my life. My bf compared many of the girls to Laura Ingalls and Little Orphan Annie because their dresses were literally disintegrating. It's all part of the hipster schtick to look like a poor and starving artist, but the jig is up when you are seen chatting away on your BlackBerry Pearl. There was even a girl decked out in a majorette uniform, complete with a coiffed camel toe. Um, let me just say this - I used to be a majorette and I was forced to strap myself in those lycra jumpsuits throughout high school...and it sucked. The uniform was uncomfortable and unflattering, and the fact that you, girly, voluntarily wore that ridiculous outfit makes a mockery of the suffering endured by all the poor majorette girls in the world.
As for the guys, their hairdos and beards were perfectly greased and uncombed, and their socks evinced all the colors of the rainbow - observe:
We made it out alive, in no small part due to the many beers we imbibed, but I am still thanking my lucky stars that I don't live in Williamsburg (though I'm sure the infestation will take over Bay Ridge by the year 2012).
Oh, and more bonus pics of moi and the crowd:
For more anthropological studies on hipsters, visit www.diehipster.com
1 comment:
These fuckers stole PBR. Gangsters like myself have been drinking PBR for years, and then these douches come and make it associated with gayness. GAYS!
Post a Comment