evolution of the hipster

woot woot.

shh: when you ask why they look so upset

Josie: Hey Ethan!

Ethan: [heavy sigh] Hey, Josie.

Josie: Why the long face?

Ethan: What are you talking about?

Josie: Your face. Just now, you look mad or sad or something.

Ethan: I was just thinking.

Josie: About something sad?

Ethan: What, is this an interrogation? Do I need to relate a sordid tale now? Christ, are you expecting something about how I didn’t get a puppy when I turned 8, and instead I got a fucking trumpet, and I was so mad I threw it on the carpet and I thought it would be fine because it’s carpet but the bell crumpled and everyone yelled at me and so I’m all fucked up now?

Josie: Sorry. Jesus. Just wondered if something’s wrong.

Ethan: Do you really want to have a conversation about this? Do you really fucking want to get into all the reasons we should be fucking terrified? Glenn Beck is on TV telling his 3 million bobble-headed viewers the Three-Fifths Compromise was a step toward abolition, voters are shooting down gay marriage left and right, the ice caps are melting, we’re spending more money in the Middle East in a day than I’ll see in my entire wasted existence and Sarah Palin’s book was a bestseller on Amazon before it fucking came out. We’re on the brink of a fucking apocalypse. Anyone who’s happy is either deluded, misinformed or just fucking stupid.

Josie: …so nothing’s up with you today?

Ethan: Me? I’m actually having a really good morning. This is just my default face.

homeless hipsters

Hipster napping on the L train or homeless chick braving the cold?

hipster is the new homeless

---

Leaving in a few hours to drive up to Tahoe for a short va-cay, coming back on Christmas Day. Going with the mother and aunt and uncle. And the 3 bratty little cousins. Oh I hope they sleep on the car ride up, so I can listen to my trance in peace and nap.

texting: the hipster way

Let us suppose that a hipster girl named Marni is out on the town with a gaggle of other hipsters, kickin’ it at a local watering hole’s massive experimental jazz dance night. She recently met a hipster boy when she was at her friend’s DJ thing at that bar that no one goes to anymore, but she went because, you know, Liam is at least trying to make something of himself (even though he lives in Jersey and gets wasted pretty much every day). For some reason she and this dude with an impressive neck tat started talking. She was struck by his passion for the Irish author James Joyce and his piercing blue eyes. He was struck by her knowledge of French New Wave films and the fact that she touched his arm a lot. They exchanged digits. They haven’t actually gone out yet, but have been volleying back witty texts about the cinematic score of The Virgin Suicides and Neck Tat’s slight Napoleon Complex for days now. It’s late. Marni is feeling kind of lonely/blue, so—bolstered by whiskey and against the advice of her friends—she shoots a text to Neck Tat (who is entered in her phone as such, as she does not give romantic interests real names until they earn that right—they never do).

To: Neck tat

Hey, I’m at Trophy Bar, if you’re around.

Sent: Thurs, Nov 12 11:45 p.m.

Marni stares at her phone for the next hour and a half. She puts it in her pocket, set to vibrate so that she will know when Neck Tat deigns to answer. She wonders, frantic, whether she’s fucked things up by contacting him as the minutes tick by.

Meanwhile, Neck Tat, sprawled on the floor of his friend’s loft, receives and reads the text immediately. He put his phone back on the floor next to the pile of empty Tecate cans and ruminates on what to say. No fucking way is he going to answer after, like, five minutes like some kind of desperate clod. No.fucking.way. After the requisite hour and a half, he flips open his phone.

From: Neck Tat

I’m at home. Come by and hang with me.

Received: Fri, Nov 12 1:15 a.m.

Marni, being smashed out her mind at this point, texts him back immediately, asking what his address is.

Back at Hipster Douchebag headquarters, Neck Tat peeps the text, flips his phone closed, drains a Tecate and settles in for about 30 minutes before the next text. Marni continues to drink.

That’s right, children: Although technology has made it possible for us to contact each other in mere seconds, hipsters have de-evolutionized the concept of communication, taking us back to the dark ages. You might as well send a fucking telegram, because the average hipster texts at the speed of a carrier pigeon.

Stuff Hipsters Hate: Texting You Back in a Timely Fashion

shit's too scene

Jane: So how do you like living in Greenpoint?

Toby: I dunno, I used to like it, but now it’s just too much of a scene.

Jane: Oh, I get that. I just moved here and I can already totally appreciate that. I’m thinking of getting a bike soon. Seems like a good thing to have around here.

Toby: Oh, I was thinking of getting a bike, too. But then there’s all those bike kids around all the time, like, talking about vintage frames and shit. It’s just become too much of a scene.

Jane: Oh, well. I just thought it would be easier than taking the bus, but I can see what you mean. Do you go to a lot of shows around here? Where’s good to go?

Toby: I used to go to shows more, but then it started to seem like people were going to concerts to be cool, not because they actually like the band. It’s too much of a fucking scene.

Jane: Oh, OK. I get that. I feel like that at shows sometimes. But, you know, I like seeing bands live sometimes… So what do you do for fun?

Toby: I mostly just spend a lot of time by myself…

Jane: Ah.

Toby: But that whole loner thing is starting to become too much a scene.

stuffhipstershate: when shit becomes too much of a scene

hipsters vs. scenesters

Attention, children, hopped up on ADD meds and Internet juice. It’s time to learn some vocab before your frenzied foray into the weekend wars (Yeah, I just referenced MGMT—deal with it). Now, I know some of you are planning a little sightseeing at your local hipster enclave come sundown. Some of you may even attempt to wear a knit cap ironically and/or test out those suspenders you bought at Goodwill last weekend. Well, be warned—you’re about to embody the textbook definition of yet another thing hipsters hate: Scenesters.

While people often use the terms “hipster” and “scenester” interchangeably, they are actually quite distinct. Observe the following definitions, compliments of Merriam-Webster:

Hipster: A person who is unusually aware of and interested in new and unconventional patterns (as in jazz or fashion).

Scenester: A person who frequents a social or cultural scene.

Take that in slowly, gentle reader. A scenester doesn’t actually live the lifestyle—he/she merely “frequents” it, acting as a cultural tourist. Therefore, after dancing wildly at Glasslands with all the longhairs, the scenester cabs it back home, where sweatpants, Sunny DVDs and a generously stocked fridge are waiting. The hipster, on the other hand, is “unusually aware of and interested in” every aspect of the scene, such that every moment is spent contemplating “new and unconventional patterns!” Patterns that often involve sneaking onto the bar’s patio in the dead of winter, getting too smashed to successfully hail a cab, literally crawling down one’s street on one’s hand and knees, passing out in the door frame, waking and realizing one has no food to speak of and ruing one’s wasted existence. Fuck “frequenting” a scene—a hipster marinates in it. Anything else is just hipster lite.

i, hipster, also hate..

Most of the Members of My Gender

Craig: What are you doing tonight?

Hazel: Dunno. Otis just texted me asking the same thing. Gus and Faceplant are gonna have people over later, I guess, and supposedly Luca’s having some party. But I bet all those stupid Columbia girls he hangs out with are gonna be there so I don’t really wanna go.

Craig: I think some of us are gonna go to Sheena’s gallery opening thingie and then smoke at Regina’s, you wanna come?

Hazel: Ugh, I cannot stand either of those girls. They’re so fake and like, guy-obsessed. Like everything in life is about meeting guys.

Craig: Uh, aren’t almost all of your friends guys?

Hazel: Yeah, cuz girls are bitches! They’re all judgmental and catty and into gossip and shit. I’m such a dude at heart. I was totally born into the wrong gender.

Craig: Maybe that’s why that guy mistook you for a man from behind at the Charleston on Tuesday.

Hazel: Whatever, it isn’t my fault that I look good with short hair and that every male on Bedford is wearing a plaid shirt on his emaciated shoulders and skinny jeans over his girlishly small hips. Hey, I might just go to Milo’s and drink beer. He got She’s All That at a stoop sale last weekend for, like, 25 cents. On tape.

Craig: I don’t get why you guys aren’t dating.

Hazel: No way, man. I love Milo so much. So much. He treats the girls he dates like shit, he knows that. Right now we’re like, best friends. We would never go and fuck that up by dating. Fuck, no.

Craig: But you have fucked.

Hazel: Whatever.

stuff hipsters hate

ChrEmo Kids

You’ve probably bumped into this type before—in Salvation Army, browsing through old bomber jackets; in the coffee shop, meandering to find a free outlet; in the used book store, running your finger over the old yellow paperbacks’ spines. They carry around guitars and notebooks and iPhones like hipsters. They walk like hipsters. But they sure as hell don’t talk like hipsters. They are the “cool” followers of Christ, and they’ve basically succeeded in sapping all the fun out of hipsterdom.

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.

---

This is now my second favorite site after "Stuff White People Like".

Shit is great.

or maybe first-favorite site, since I've spent 2 hours reading it last night instead of my Intro to Environmental Economics textbook.