Authors: Brenna Ehrlich,Andrea Bartz

Stuff Hipsters Hate (22 page)

BOOK: Stuff Hipsters Hate

12.74Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

ads

MAKING DECISIONS

JOB:
What the fuck are you doing? Are we gonna stand here and stare at the Five Dollar Footlong ads all night, or are we going in?

LEE:
Don’t rush me. They have, like, pre-put-together subs, right?

JOB:
What? I mean yeah, there’s, like, meatball subs. But even if you pick one you have to like, choose the toppings and shit.

LEE:
Shit. Is everything listed?

JOB:
Like the toppings? Probably. I mean, you can see them. They’re right there.

LEE:
OK. Fuck. OK.

JOB:
Except I guess the sauces. They’re sorta unmarked. Dude, the bus stops running at midnight. Fucking go in.

LEE:
What sauce do I pick? How do I know which sauce to get?

JOB:
Are you fucking kidding me? Just get sweet onion teriyaki. Flip the fuck out. Hurry up, people are starting to stare.

LEE:
Sweet onion teriyaki. OK. Sweet…onion…teriyaki.

JOB:
Shit man, McGonogle just texted me. We gotta bring beer.

LEE:
What brand?

JOB:
Your call.

LEE:
[passes out]

ENTHUSIASM

For pretty much, like, anything.

KEEPING THEIR INNERMOST HOPES AND FEARS TO THEMSELVES

When it comes to their feelings, hipsters are veritable chatterboxes—maybe not always verbally, but bear with us. While most hipsters aren’t the type to call up their besties and yammer into the night about their broken dreams, they will engage you in lengthy text convos about their body issues and/or distrust of women; call you when they know you’re sleeping to leave you long, drunken voicemails; post yearning Missed Connections to lovers who have spurned them; and habitually write angsty epistles on the bar bathroom wall. If you can’t already gauge a hipster’s level of sadness by the increasingly pronounced slump of his rounded shoulders, just take a peek in his notebook, which he’s likely scribbling in openly while sighing next to you on the J train.

CHREMO KIDS

“I’m always fucking bumping into this type—in Salvation Army, browsing through old bomber jackets; in the coffee shop, meandering to find a free outlet; in the used book store, running their fingers over the old yellow paperbacks’ spines. They carry around guitars and notebooks and iPhones like normal people. They walk like normal people. But they sure as hell don’t talk like anyone I know. They’re, like, the fucking ‘cool’ followers of Christ, and they’ve basically succeeded in sapping all the fun out of life.

It doesn’t take long to out one of these dudes. For a minute, he seems cool. Then you notice his overall enthusiasm, this weird fucking optimism. Your bullshit detector starts letting out its feeble beep, you know? He giggles and tells, like, wholesome stories about that time they all went camping and the girls stole everyone’s towels. And then, swear to God, one of two things happens. Either he begins witnessing—a fucking broad swath attempt at evangelism that breeds nothing but awkwardness—or he seduces you with his bizarre cheer and impeccable manners and even agrees 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.’

I don’t fucking get it. How can one call oneself a functioning human being if one does not get drunk once in a while? Or smoke pot on hot summer nights? Or say ‘fuck’ when the mood fucking takes you? 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.”

—Trina B., 24, projectionist and atheist

WHEN YOU ASK WHY THEY LOOK 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 eight, 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 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 three 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.

THE INDI-BRO

Main Entry:
indi-bro
Pronunciation: \‘in·dē-brō\
Function:
noun
Date: 2009

: an attractive male person who enjoys independent music and/or culture, but still persists in being a bro. A hipster male may befriend an indi-bro, but mostly because said bro/hipster hybrid can get free tickets to shows and/or knows where all the parties serving free liquor are located. Often mocked behind his back for his use of hair gel/rippling pecs/secret love for power ballads, the indi-bro, in turn, uses the hipster to up his “authenticity” factor.

NOTABLE INDI-BROS

Gabe Saporta:
Possibly ironic pop/punk star who enjoys wearing plaid and silly sunglasses; also enjoys exclamation marks and is widely known for being a “babe.”

Joseph Gordon-Levitt:
Reclusive film star who started out “cool,” appearing in such sleeper hits as
Brick
and
Mysterious Skin
, and then lost a measure of cred for his role in the aggressively hipster-marketed
500 Days of Summer
. After appearing on the cover of
Nylon Men
, JGL officially sealed his indi-bro status, but managed to retain some respect for looking like a pale-faced Midwestern bartender who just took a dip in a swimming pool full of whiskey and poor life choices.

Chuck Palahniuk:
Formerly subversive author with a penchant for penning cringe-worthy stories involving everything from lullabies that kill to pool drains that suck out one’s insides. Loved by hipsters for, like, two seconds before publications like
Men’s Fitness
called him out for being quirky and that “first rule of Fight Club” joke was pulverized like the proverbial dead horse. Plus, check out those guns.

PRODUCTS MARKETED TOWARD HIPSTERS