Stuff Hipsters Hate (12 page)
Read Stuff Hipsters Hate Online
Authors: Brenna Ehrlich,Andrea Bartz
And, secretly, she’d rather not. Such dilapidated dwellings serve a triple purpose in a hipster’s life: They save her money, lend her indie cred and provide her with endless stories to tell friends and future lovers (“Dude. My apartment is fucking haunted. You would not believe the shit that goes down here. I swear I live in the freaking Dolphin Hotel.”).
Sadly, as more and more of the hipster set occupies such neighborhoods, all vestiges of the once ethnically diverse community are eventually blotted out: the Ukrainian bakeries become ironic bars, the grocery marts all-vegan cafes for rabid locavores. Eventually, said ’hood becomes what’s known as a “scene.”
17
Cue the influx of bros and Trixies, comforted by the presence of that most hated of establishments, Starbucks.
18
When the mermaid seal arrives, your average hipster will pack up her plywood loft room and relocate to the newest “real” neighborhood—one where people still have lawn ornaments and shit.
17
Cue the influx of bros and Trixies, comforted by the presence of that most hated of establishments, Starbucks.
18
When the mermaid seal arrives, your average hipster will pack up her plywood loft room and relocate to the newest “real” neighborhood—one where people still have lawn ornaments and shit.
Although your average hipster thrives on being “quirky,” “unique” and—to the majority of society—“fucking weird,” no one wants to exist in a neighborhood in which you find yourself perched at the very top of the out-there totem pole. So, while one may have mild celebrity status as “The Literal Williamsburg Hipster Dude” (the homeboy who rocks 17thcentury garb whilst strolling down Bedford on sunny days), “Awesome Mustache Man” (that guy with the epically waxed ’stache whom you see at the bus stop every morning) or “Squirrel Tail Chick” (the girl who sells and wears animal tails at the flea market), one finds comfort in living in a ’hood chock-full of true-blood local personalities, such
as “Dude Who Bikes Around the ’Hood Singing ‘La Bamba,’” “Lady with Small Dog Perched on Her Shoulder” and “Naked Unicyclist.”
These unflappable luminaries are a testament to the creative joie de vivre of one’s cultural enclave—a gay reminder on grim days that there are people out there living their merrily-we-roll-along lives to the fullest, all day, every day. Nary a hipster will actually speak to these vivacious victors of the grayest afternoons; to do so would shatter the illusion and render said icons mere beings of flesh, bone and pulsing blood.
That and they’re all probs legit insane.
MARTIN:
Oh man, I was just on the fucking Chinatown bus for, like, four hours. It smelled like pancakes the whole time.
Oh man, I was just on the fucking Chinatown bus for, like, four hours. It smelled like pancakes the whole time.
SEAMUS:
Did you go to Philly?
Did you go to Philly?
MARTIN:
Naw, man. Boston. My friend lives in Allston and I haven’t seen him since he got back from hopping freighters for the last six months. He had some crazy stories—fell in love with some punk chick from Toledo and he’s getting together the money to build a cabin for her up in the wilds of who-the-fuck-knows-where, Ohio. Keeps talking about how he’s gonna bust outta Boston, get his tats removed and open a taxidermy studio up in O-ville. He’s livin’ his life, man.
Naw, man. Boston. My friend lives in Allston and I haven’t seen him since he got back from hopping freighters for the last six months. He had some crazy stories—fell in love with some punk chick from Toledo and he’s getting together the money to build a cabin for her up in the wilds of who-the-fuck-knows-where, Ohio. Keeps talking about how he’s gonna bust outta Boston, get his tats removed and open a taxidermy studio up in O-ville. He’s livin’ his life, man.
SEAMUS:
Yeah, but, dude. He lives in Boston? I fucking hate Boston. Fucking Freedom Trail my ass…
Yeah, but, dude. He lives in Boston? I fucking hate Boston. Fucking Freedom Trail my ass…
MARTIN:
Yeah, man. It’s kinda awful. He kept telling me that Allston was, like, the Williamsburg of Boston. But, dude, all I saw were these fucking college kids everywhere, and these terrible sports bars filled with total fucking poseurs with tribal tattoos and surface piercings.
Yeah, man. It’s kinda awful. He kept telling me that Allston was, like, the Williamsburg of Boston. But, dude, all I saw were these fucking college kids everywhere, and these terrible sports bars filled with total fucking poseurs with tribal tattoos and surface piercings.
SEAMUS:
Yeah. All my friends who go to art school live there. I guess there’s supposed to be a scene somewhere.
Yeah. All my friends who go to art school live there. I guess there’s supposed to be a scene somewhere.
MARTIN:
But, dude, get this. I was on the train and there was—I swear to God—a throng of frat-holes in fucking suits and sunglasses fighting about who was gonna get sexiled that night. Like, one dude was seriously gonna cry. It was like the terrible, terrible college experience I never had.
But, dude, get this. I was on the train and there was—I swear to God—a throng of frat-holes in fucking suits and sunglasses fighting about who was gonna get sexiled that night. Like, one dude was seriously gonna cry. It was like the terrible, terrible college experience I never had.
SEAMUS:
Well, that sucks, dude. Let’s go get a drink, wash the Chinatown bus stink away.
Well, that sucks, dude. Let’s go get a drink, wash the Chinatown bus stink away.
MARTIN:
Yeah, if you’re buying. Where?
Yeah, if you’re buying. Where?
SEASMUS:
Matchless?
Matchless?
MARTIN:
Naw, that place is Dante-esque now. The white hats were out in force last Tuesday.
Naw, that place is Dante-esque now. The white hats were out in force last Tuesday.
SEAMUS:
OK, the Levee?
OK, the Levee?
MARTIN:
Are you fucking kidding me? Dude, that place is like a halfway home for old weird dudes who still think they can get laid.
Are you fucking kidding me? Dude, that place is like a halfway home for old weird dudes who still think they can get laid.
SEAMUS:
The Charleston?
The Charleston?
MARTIN:
Now you’re just being stupid.
Now you’re just being stupid.
SEAMUS:
Ah, man, I don’t know then. What do you want to do?
Ah, man, I don’t know then. What do you want to do?
MARTIN:
Ah, fuck Williamsburg. Let’s borrow Pedro’s car and drive to Chicago. I hear Pilsen is OK now.
Ah, fuck Williamsburg. Let’s borrow Pedro’s car and drive to Chicago. I hear Pilsen is OK now.
“Urine-soaked chariots used to transport screaming wretches down an already congested sidewalk with undue speed. The fact that your child is contained in a bubble of plastic does not negate its existence. Please remove said apparatus from
my
neighborhood.”
my
neighborhood.”
“Although you are cleverly disguised so as to look ‘hip,’ what with your tiny Replacements T-shirt and artistically disheveled hairdo, I recognize you for what you are: a wailing, whimpering, slightly damp excuse for a human being. Yes, your parents may be attractive in an I’m-way-too-fucking-old-to-live-in-Williamsburg-but-I’m-gonna-rock-this-sleeve-tat-anyway kind of way, but their tragically fading hotness is not enough to overshadow the horror that is you.”
“Am I near a fucking elementary school? Children freak the shit out of me. They wear mismatched clothing, eat unbalanced meals, dance wildly, demand the spotlight and like, bawl or mope when things don’t go their way. They’re like less articulate versions of my friends.”
MISSED CONNECTION: I love the way you describe the loose tea varieties - m4w - 25 (Brooklyn Label, Greenpoint)
Date: 2010-03-16, 5:40PM EDTReply To This PostYeah, I hate Starbucks because of that whole corporate, fuck-the-man song and dance (and because their coffee tastes like the inside of a garbage bag), but there’s a deeper reason for my abhorrence of the frappe-hawking chain: the absence of you, my ethereal coffee girl. O beautiful angel with a septum piercing, you provide the perfect remedy for a Wednesday morning hangover in the form of a cup of deep, black Joe and a half smile. True, I hardly ever talk to you, aside from an occasional “thank you” and perhaps a comment about how tired I am. I merely slump at the counter, pretending to read Howl while sneaking glances in silent desperation. Starbucks just doesn’t afford as many opportunities for unrequited love—maybe because no one looks hot in a green apron and baseball cap.• it’s NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interestsPostingID: 1634699821
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