Upon moving to Williamsburg, located in the heart of Brooklyn, NY, I became fascinated with hipster culture. I began frequenting the local internet cafe and going to Tuesday night movie showings at McCarren, anxious to observe them in their natural setting. “Oh the ridiculous hipsters,” I would think to myself, smiling on the inside.
But then something unexpected happened – I began to encounter people who described me – ME!- as a hipster. “Nonsense,” I thought. But I began to worry that what they said was true. I began casually surveying my friends across the country on the matter, slipping the question into related conversations, and have gotten a variety of responses.
JK: Nah. You actually care about stuff.
DK: Yeah. If you’re asking, you already know the answer.
AL: No way. Your school had a football team. And they actually won games!
HJ: I don’t know. Did you get that dress at the Salvation Army?
But it was really from Value World so HA! Sensing an impending identity crisis, I began to investigate what exactly it means to be hipster. And so this blog was born.
I still don’t know if I’m a hipster or not, and I don’t think I ever will. By vehemently denying my hipsterdom, I automatically become one, while if I accept… well, I don’t know what that makes me. Nobody wants to be a hipster.
I guess that means the choice is up to you. Post in the comment box if you have an opinion (hint: hipsters don’t have opinions about anything besides fashion and music).
My hipster dilemma Part 2
I don’t know if this blogging venture is getting to me or what, but this weekend, I had the most hipster moment of my entire existence.
The afternoon sun deceptively boasted an atmosphere suitable for lounging around, but my best friend had to catch a plane to France and time was of the essence. It was noon when I left for The Lodge, and I knew I would have to hurry and chug those buy-one-get-one bloody Marys so she could leave for the airport by 1:30.
The hipster moment started when we realized it was 1:45 and did not yet have the check.
“Oh shit, I have to go. I haven’t even packed yet. We have to hurry!” my friend recognized. (Note: As you may know, hurrying is not something that hipsters are capable of.)
We were out of there like the troops in Iraq. The waitress took forever to get the check, which is usually part of the charm of the place but today added to the intensity of the situation; I didn’t want to rush the waitress too much, as it might damage my street cred, so I tried my best to Jedi-mind-trick her into hurrying, which did not work. When the check came 10 minutes later, I chugged the rest of my drink and we rushed out the side door!
We had not gone two feet before I stopped to bum a cigarette from a guy standing nearby. He told me that I could only have one if I packed them for him, which I expertly did. I felt guilty for wasting more time when we were trying to rush, but I firmly believe a cigarette is an absolute necessity after, if not during, bloody Mary brunches. I looked over at my friend, expecting to see her waiting impatiently or walking away without me. But alas, she had sidetracked only moments after me and was happily petting a young Labrador retriever!
We discussed our failure as we made our way across the street, attempting to light the single cigarette with a pack of soggy matches and stopping ever few feet to shield from the wind. We finally got it lit and proceeded to rush onward toward my apartment, where we were going so she could find out what airlines she was flying.
This time, we did not make it one block before we came across a hipster goldmine! There were two boxes filled with rejected hipster treasures – I could see perfect attire for an “ugly sweater” party atop the mass. We both stopped at the exact same moment, looked at each other and dove for the boxes! The ugly sweater was instantly mine but we grabbed the ULTIMATE IRONIC T-SHIRT — a royal blue remnant from a JP Morgan Chase event that read “Corporate Challenge” in bold print across the front — at the exact same time, proceeded to run around the boxes laughing hysterically and fighting over the item, which she eventually relinquished. I mean, given my recent failure/success with the corporation, I couldn’t not own that shirt. She found a skirt that she put on over her black dress in the middle of the sidewalk and modeled it in a car window for the next minute.
Finally, we remembered that we were supposed to be RUSHING and snapped to! We strolled quickly down the street with our armfuls of treasure and attempted to finish the cigarette, only to find it had gone out! We went through the ordeal of relighting it with the matches, and proceeded onward, panting and smoking our way to my doorstep.
When we arrived, we felt triumphant, yet knew our mission was not complete. Alas, half of the cigarette still remained. I don’t know if any of you have ever tried this before, but it produces very conflicting emotions when you are trying to rush and leisurely smoke a post-brunch cigarette at the same time. The result was a fit of laughter that rendered me incapable of unlocking the door.
When we finally made it upstairs, we spilled into my apartment and made a run for my computer. As my friend opened her email, switched tabs to check Gawker, and went back to her email, we both acknowledged that this had quite possibly been the most magnanimous hipster moment of both of our lives.
As I walked to work ten minutes later, I reflected on the situation, not knowing what to think about it. It was only one time! It doesn’t mean anything. But I think, in some ways, Williamsburg is having its effects on me. To that, all I can say is Jesus, this fucking neighborhood.