Read Stuff Hipsters Hate Online
Authors: Brenna Ehrlich,Andrea Bartz
Stuff Hipsters Hate (3 page)
ART:
Dude, that girl over there is killing me right now.
Dude, that girl over there is killing me right now.
LARSON:
Which one?
Which one?
ART:
The chick with the asymmetrical haircut and the librarian glasses.
The chick with the asymmetrical haircut and the librarian glasses.
LARSON:
Which one?
Which one?
ART:
The one in the red romper.
The one in the red romper.
LARSON:
Aw, shit, man. She’s hot. You should, like, go ask her what she’s reading right now or something.
Aw, shit, man. She’s hot. You should, like, go ask her what she’s reading right now or something.
ART:
No way, man. I never go up to girls in bars. That’s not my style.
No way, man. I never go up to girls in bars. That’s not my style.
LARSON:
How do you ever meet girls, then?
How do you ever meet girls, then?
ART:
They come up to me.
They come up to me.
LARSON:
No lie?
No lie?
ART:
Yeah. Totally. I figure a lady is only worth my time if she has the stones to hit me up.
Yeah. Totally. I figure a lady is only worth my time if she has the stones to hit me up.
LARSON:
That’s deep, man.
That’s deep, man.
ART:
Well, I’m pretty sensitive. I think it’s because I’m a Libra.
Well, I’m pretty sensitive. I think it’s because I’m a Libra.
The conversation’s going well. Filled with scorn for the other patrons of Royal Joke (excuse me, Royal Oak), you lean on the bar and impress him with your knowledge of late ’80s post-hardcore punk rock (“Oh, so you guys sort of sound like Fugazi?”) and your excellent taste in film (“Yeah,
Clockwork Orange
has been my favorite movie since I was about 14…oh, I know,
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
is the most fucking annoying movie ever made.”) But despite his intention to bring you home later (a decision he came to, like, an hour ago), dude isn’t going to buy you a drink.
Clockwork Orange
has been my favorite movie since I was about 14…oh, I know,
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
is the most fucking annoying movie ever made.”) But despite his intention to bring you home later (a decision he came to, like, an hour ago), dude isn’t going to buy you a drink.
He’ll conveniently excuse himself to visit the restroom when your whiskey-soda gets low, watching carefully from the shadowy corner so he can return when you’ve already put away your wallet. Or he’ll just continue talking, shooting glances around the bar but refusing to let his eyes rest on your empty Hoegaarden. Unless you’re on an actual date, he’s as likely to spend money on you as he is to choose “Livin’ on a Prayer” on the jukebox. (And let’s be honest, if you are on a date you’re probably sneaking into a chained-off part of Coney Island at one in the morning, and at best he’s kindly letting you take pulls of Jim Beam from his flask.)
Oh, and he probs won’t pay for the cab home, either. He may even jump out and strut over to open your door, making like a gentleman while simultaneously leaving you to deal with the blinking meter. This isn’t about his complete lack of financial resources. It’s because he’s a
feminist
. The 21st century is all about equality, babe.
feminist
. The 21st century is all about equality, babe.
Although hipster boys thrive, subsist and fuel their already horrifically engorged egos (haha, you totally thought I was going to say something else) with that sweet, sweet manna known as praise, a tried-and-true method of snagging an h-boy’s interest is a carefully chosen insult. The “neg” is not a new concept (I think that dude Mystery pretty much cornered the market on the little sadistic gem), but using the technique on XYers totally is. You see, the hipster dating scene is a topsy-turvy zone. It’s the realm on the other side of the fucking mirror. In short: Hipster dudes are kinda, well, hot girls.
Such girls are wholly secure in their hotness (at least they appear to be), so when someone questions their status as beings of superior nature, they are subsequently intrigued. The same goes for hipster boys. While these “geniuses” appear to be completely confident in their ability to impress their compatriots with their sick keyboarding, lyrical stylings or ability to finger paint like a child, inside, they are basically insecure little boys who—in reality— couldn’t get anywhere near a lady’s lips until age 20. Drop a carefully chosen honesty bomb around one of these preening Peter Pans and I guarantee he will be intrigued. You will instantly become: “different,” “not a bullshitter” or “real,” a litany of adjectives that a hipster boy is constantly seeking in a mate.
If you would like to test out the above concept at your local watering hole this weekend, the authors suggest the following methods:
Being a hipster, the man in question will most likely be sporting something ridiculous/unnecessary, making it easy to call him out. However, be careful not to outright insult the dude (i.e., “Does your designated driver roll in a blue bus? Because you look retarded.”).
Example:To a dude wearing wayfarers inside—“Why are you wearing sunglasses at night?”
Such a question is not, by nature, cruel or insulting, but it begs an explanation that will most likely lead to more in-depth conversation:
“Oh, I just rolled in from San Francisco six hours ago to promote my sustainable fashion magazine,
Fashion and Fucking
, and I haven’t had time to change. Do you like fu- … fashion?”
Hipsters are used to people hanging on their every intellectual word. If you show a dude that you’re listening—really listening—to all the stupid bullshit that he’s inevitably spouting, he will be intrigued. He will also think you’re “smart.” Which will be “refreshing” until he realizes that you’re probably smarter than him.
Example:HIPSTER DUDE
: “I don’t know, I guess I just worry sometimes that people think I’m better than them because I’m really quiet and I don’t usually say very much. I get really uncomfortable sometimes when I’m, like, in a crowd of people all talking about their art because I can’t seem to muster up the
energy
to
comment
, you know? And it’s not because I’m not
interested
; it’s just that I’m so busy processing what everyone’s
saying
and painting mental images of what they’re describing that I don’t have time to actually put together the words into
sentences
and interject something into the conversation. Because I want to make sure I say the right thing, you know? And not some stupid fucking placating bullshit. I hate that shit. I dunno, I don’t really care what people think of me.”YOU
: “You just completely contradicted yourself.”HIPSTER DUDE, LATER, TO HIS FRIEND
: “Dude, she just completely called me out. Who is this chick?”
The truth hurts, but hipsters love pain. I don’t suggest actually bashing a hipster’s Etch-a-Sketch installation or telling him in painful detail just how dreadful his poetry slam skills are (no one really enjoys being roasted), but suggesting in some way that you don’t quite care will make him seek your approval all the more.
Why? Because, inherently, all hipsters are on a quest for affirmation. If you distinguish yourself from the majority of girls—who often heap on the praise in order to snag the preening peacock—a hipster boy will follow you to the ends of the blighted earth that is Williamsburg. That is, of course, until you finally relent and say something nice. At that point it’s Oversville, U.S.A., population: you. And only you.
Example:HIPSTER BOY
: “Did you get a chance to listen to my band on MySpace?”YOU
: “No.”HIPSTER BOY
: “Oh… That’s cool. Some other time, maybe. [Grabs you and starts making out]”
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 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 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 and 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—and they never do).
The Virgin Suicides
and Neck Tat’s slight Napoleon complex for days now. It’s late. Marni is feeling kind of lonely and 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—and 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 feigns indifference while wondering, frantically, whether she’s fucked things up by contacting him as the minutes tick by.
Meanwhile, Neck Tat, sprawled on the floor of his 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 fuck. No.fucking.way. After the requisite hour and a half, he flips open his phone.
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