Stuff Hipsters Hate (5 page)
Read Stuff Hipsters Hate Online
Authors: Brenna Ehrlich,Andrea Bartz
With this wide variety of romantic interests in play, it’s certain: Everyone’s getting screwed.
“Yeah, I don’t think I want to see you anymore. You don’t really need me and I’m kinda intimidated by your real job. I’m not gonna do that whole let’s-see-other-people thing though…that leads to all this fucking crying and I end up feeling like a total dick.
Instead I’m gonna just quietly withdraw and stop responding to your texts, occasionally emerging from the ether to send you cryptic, apologetic e-mails about my current bout of episodic depression. I’ll use figurative language like ‘buried under life’ or ‘in a cocoon’ and make increasingly vague references to hanging out in the near future. Then you’ll have a chance to get used to the idea of not having me in your life as I gradually fade into nothingness. (True, one time after I ghosted this chick sent me an e-mail telling me she was all bewildered and furious, but she was crazy possessive or some shit.) That way when I finally run into you at Brooklyn Bowl and I’m with my new girl (the one I star ted hanging out with when I first sent you those e-mails—chyeah, I dovetail babes), everyone’s cool.
Really, this is better for everybody.”
—Aaron K., 29, dog groomer and harpsichord player
“Dude, love is so much more meaningful when you’re fighting all the time. Love shouldn’t be easy—it should be a struggle. Hey, no one ever wrote a timeless, real song about a mutually respectful, emotionally supportive relationship. That’s why I date crazy girls/emotionally distant boys who will inevitably leave me broken and wailing into my whiskey, act aloof and unfeeling when stalking new romantic prey, and frequently hook up with my best friends. I take all my relationship cues from books by Bukowski, Murakami and Salinger. Marriage is an illusion. (But I totally wanna get married someday.)”
—Esther J., 24, poet and sandwich maker
CHAPTER 2
SOCIAL HABITS
[CASE STUDY]Marisol V.’s vintage “Posters of New York City Transit” calendar (a Christmas gift from her clueless mother) has been flipped to September 2008 for several years now. This lack of attention to dates encapsulates Marisol’s attitude toward the passage of time. Marisol is a 27-year-old hipster female who works the nightshift at a 24-hour coffee shop, meaning her sleep schedule runs roughly from 9 a.m. until 3 p.m. Consequently, at any given time, she has little awareness of what day it is and is often very pale. She frequently misses prescheduled events such as dinners with friends, drinks with potential suitors and various and sundry medical appointments (all of them long overdue and quite necessary).Exacerbating this state of affairs is the fact that she, like many of the poor, shiftless souls who make up Gen-Y, has a mild-to-acute case of ADD, meaning she often has trouble committing to any one set of plans. Take last Wednesday night. (Wednesday is one of the few nights Marisol has free.) The previous day, Marisol had asked her friend Jana to accompany her to a party during which attendees would assemble pancakes from a variety of ingredients (Butterfingers, truffles, celery, narcotics). The night of the party, however, Marisol ended up sleeping until 11:30 p.m., at which time her friend Bobbie Lonely called, offering to take her to an ironic disco-themed party at which several C-list celebrities would be in attendance. Marisol, under the impression that it was Monday (her other free night), headed to the party. On the way, she stopped to drink in McCarren Park with a group of friendly looking Crusties, and since her iPhone had run out of juice hours before, she missed the many texts and phone calls from Jana and Bobbie Lonely, the latter of whom sat at home writing anguished poetry about his black, black soul.
With age, most Americans settle into certain schedules: making the morning coffee, showering and dressing for work, commuting, killing one’s soul and creative spirit for eight hours a day and then rewarding oneself with either alcohol, food or hours and hours of reality television. And then, when the weekend comes, they rejoice, engaging with relish in preplanned social activities along the lines of bar-hopping, attending a concert or participating in an athletic pursuit of some sort. Not so with the average hipster, who often forsakes societal norms such as “work,” “commuting” and “bathing.”
Figure 3
: A Hipster’s Schedule
: A Hipster’s Schedule
Because this rare species lacks the constraints that shape the social practices of the average Joe Blow American, leisure time is redefined. Instead of being relegated to the weekends and/ or the odd “school night,” recreation can occur at any moment, punctuating a dreary day like an ethereal ray of golden light in a particularly gloomy cloud formation. Thus, 2 a.m.—considered a late/early hour for most of civilization—becomes a perfectly acceptable juncture at which to board the Bolt bus to Philly to attend a secret concert in a Masonic temple.
7
[See
Figure 4
.] Scheduling a decent night of drinking and watching cartoons prevents one from engaging in the cornucopia of other activities simultaneously taking place all over the city.
8
Ask any hipster or Kerouacian thinker—the most perfect nights cannot be planned.
7
[See
Figure 4
.] Scheduling a decent night of drinking and watching cartoons prevents one from engaging in the cornucopia of other activities simultaneously taking place all over the city.
8
Ask any hipster or Kerouacian thinker—the most perfect nights cannot be planned.
Figure 4
: Fun in Relation to Planning
: Fun in Relation to Planning
a. Jordan pulls up outside your apartment at 3 a.m. in a borrowed camper with a sentence fragment on his lips: “Mushrooms, seaside, now.”
b. Macy texts you at 12 a.m. (while you’re already out at a lame bar) to invite you to a rooftop party where a naked dance party later occurs.
c. Johnny calls at 4 p.m. to ask if you want to go to a gallery opening—free wine and snacks (i.e., dinner)!
d. Carla asks you on Friday if you want to see a show on Saturday night. There’s a $5 cover and the opening band is kinda OK.
e. Leon e-mails you on Tuesday to see if you want to see his friend’s play on Friday night. It’s about Bukowski. At least four of your friends from college are in it. You’ll have to call the box office to buy tickets.
f. Ernie sends you a Facebook invite—for something that’s, like, weeks away—I’m sorry, I stopped paying attention, what’s going on?
This joie de vivre has a profound effect on a hipster’s interactions with his or her friends, and even the initial selection of this elite group. In order to be tight with a hipster, you must, in a metaphorical sense, bind a blindfold across your bloodshot eyes and let him or her lead you into the dark of the night, trusting that something “fun” will materialize. Hipsters are the Merry Pranksters that Tom Wolfe chronicled in
The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test
, frolicking children who while away the hours in the darkness of the woods, completely losing track of time until their rumbling stomachs remind them they have not yet supped.
The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test
, frolicking children who while away the hours in the darkness of the woods, completely losing track of time until their rumbling stomachs remind them they have not yet supped.
In short: Most of them suffer from an all-consuming affliction known as narcissism, lacking the basic empathy to indulge in the whims of others. Friends function as a means of entertainment and entertainment alone. Once a compadre assumes the faint outline of a real person with “needs” and “desires,” the companion loses his or her luster. Thus, if you attempt to plan an evening beforehand, the hipster will retreat, much like a cat when showered with too much attention. Said hipster will say with a casual flick of his head, “I don’t do plans,” swiftly erasing you from his lexicon of amusement.
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