some self-promotion here:
It doesn’t take long to out one of these strange pseudo-scenesters. For a minute, he seems cool. Then you notice his overall enthusiasm, his joie de vivre. Your bullshit detector starts letting out its feeble beep. He giggles and tells wholesome stories about that time they all went camping and the girls stole everyone’s towels. Then one of two things will happen. Either he’ll begin witnessing, a broad swath attempt at evangelism that breeds nothing but awkwardness. Or he’ll seduce you with his refreshing cheer and impeccable manners and even agree to come home with you, suddenly sitting upright on the couch mid-make-out to whisper, “There’s something I have to tell you…I’m a virgin.”
How can one call oneself a hipster if one does not drink to the point of blacking out? Or smoke pot regularly? Or say “fuck” a lot? What self-respecting scenester would be caught dead saying grace before a meal or taking a moment to pray with the band before getting onstage? And in the name of all things holy, how are these people surviving without sex?! The junk-showcasing skinny jeans, the sculpted hair, the sullen glances at attractive specimens from the other side of the bus—all for naught. Why they even get out of bed in the morning is beyond me. Because there sure as hell ain’t anyone warm and mussed and smelling of tobacco on the other side of it.
