Read Stuff Hipsters Hate Online
Authors: Brenna Ehrlich,Andrea Bartz
Stuff Hipsters Hate (6 page)
Hipsters love talking about themselves. Ask them a question and they’ll answer it in full. Follow up with another query and they’ll merrily continue. But they’re missing that critical brain structure that compels most people, at some point, to break in with, “…and what about you, how long have you lived in Fort Greene?” Stop asking questions and you’ll be met with crickets. At that point, said hipster will sip deeply from his Tecate, gaze around the room and awkwardly slink away.
BRIDGET:
Dude, you’re, like,
so
late! I’ve been sitting at the bar downing whiskey and Diet Coke and fending off confused bros for the last hour!
Dude, you’re, like,
so
late! I’ve been sitting at the bar downing whiskey and Diet Coke and fending off confused bros for the last hour!
SAM:
I’m sorry, girl—I fell asleep while reading Hesse on the roof and when I woke up it was all dark and stuff and I couldn’t remember what day it was. I was still pretty hungover from day-drinking with Chase and John Boy in McGorlick Park, so I made myself, like, a fucking
huge
omelet and like, 20 pieces of bacon and ate it all at the counter and then Marjorie came over fucking drunk out of her mind and wanted me to go to this dance party with her over in Bed-Stuy and when I said I was busy she broke down and, like, started crying and telling me she
loved
me. So we had to, like,
talk
about it.
I’m sorry, girl—I fell asleep while reading Hesse on the roof and when I woke up it was all dark and stuff and I couldn’t remember what day it was. I was still pretty hungover from day-drinking with Chase and John Boy in McGorlick Park, so I made myself, like, a fucking
huge
omelet and like, 20 pieces of bacon and ate it all at the counter and then Marjorie came over fucking drunk out of her mind and wanted me to go to this dance party with her over in Bed-Stuy and when I said I was busy she broke down and, like, started crying and telling me she
loved
me. So we had to, like,
talk
about it.
BRIDGET:
I’ve been calling you for 30 minutes!
I’ve been calling you for 30 minutes!
SAM:
Oh, my iPhone ran out of power and I can’t find my charger.
Oh, my iPhone ran out of power and I can’t find my charger.
BRIDGET:
That’s like the third time you’ve lost your charger.
That’s like the third time you’ve lost your charger.
SAM:
Whatever. Am I really that late? What time is it?
Whatever. Am I really that late? What time is it?
BRIDGET:
Dude, you’re wearing a watch.
Dude, you’re wearing a watch.
SAM:
[looks down at his calculator wristwatch] I don’t even know if this thing tells
time
.
[looks down at his calculator wristwatch] I don’t even know if this thing tells
time
.
“Hey Jen, I haven’t seen you since high school. Wow, those are totally sweet flip-flops. It’s not lame at
all
that you have the name of your fucking sorority emblazoned all over them (or that you’re even wearing flip-flops, for that matter). And that T-shir t is really awesome; everyone
does
love a Tri-Delt, you’re totally right. It’s not like you wasted a good portion of your college experience parading around in pointy shoes and covering shit in glitter or anything. No. You were making important
social
connections that I’m sure will come in handy when you’re looking to round up a group of housewives bored enough to bake cookies for your next book club meeting. I hear the new Mitch Albom is the shit, by the way. I mean, it’s not like you were part of some socially alienating collective that requires you to dress, act and think a certain way in order to join. Oh, shit—it was nice catching up, Jen, but I gotta go help my friend Vince set up for this super secret party out in the woods later tonight. Peace.”
all
that you have the name of your fucking sorority emblazoned all over them (or that you’re even wearing flip-flops, for that matter). And that T-shir t is really awesome; everyone
does
love a Tri-Delt, you’re totally right. It’s not like you wasted a good portion of your college experience parading around in pointy shoes and covering shit in glitter or anything. No. You were making important
social
connections that I’m sure will come in handy when you’re looking to round up a group of housewives bored enough to bake cookies for your next book club meeting. I hear the new Mitch Albom is the shit, by the way. I mean, it’s not like you were part of some socially alienating collective that requires you to dress, act and think a certain way in order to join. Oh, shit—it was nice catching up, Jen, but I gotta go help my friend Vince set up for this super secret party out in the woods later tonight. Peace.”
—Fiona, 23, florist and keytarist
Hipsters know their ABCs: Adderall, Booze, Coke. Knowledge may be power, but the total obliteration of cognizance is totes more fun.
a. More than one person is looking into the camera and smiling. If anyone ever notices me skulking around with my Nikon N2000, I take my finger off the shutter, stat.
b. They’re at a bar. You can see their fucking drinks on the table (with twists) and the background is a black booth. Really aesthetically pleasing, girls.
c. It’s after sunset. Never take pictures after sunset. Flash is for the weak and stupid.
d. That chick is making a fucking gang sign with her bejeweled fingers. Christ, if she knew what that meant…seriously, the only acceptable hand signal for a photo is the lookout (over the eyes). But you’re really better off just pretending you have no idea there’s a camera nearby.
e. This was obviously taken with a point-and-shoot. The shutter speed is giving me a fucking heart attack. And that is clearly digital zoom.
f. This is probably one of 18 nearly identical photos they put on Facebook in an album entitled “Saturday Night’s Alright” or “Big Pimpin’ Up in NYC” or “gOoD tlmEz <3.”
Fuck, somebody fire up the Photoshop so I can make the snaps I took last night look like Polaroids—I need a little fucking authenticity.
Yes, 96 percent of the population is not cool enough to be worthy of any given hipster’s friendship. But interestingly, a hipster’s social circle is not entirely homogeneous. A h-boy or -girl’s friend group usually contains, but is not limited to, the following satellites:
The Token Trixie
Any hipster girl worth her Tapatio sauce has at least one made-up, put-together, totally unhipster friend whom she shows off at Bed-Stuy parties and marvels at over coffee—red-eye for Shane, soy chai for Brooke. (Strangely, the hipster half of the pair has no interest in seeing the doll in her natural habitat. In other words, she’s happy to trot her fancy friend around Greenpoint like a prize pony on Sunday afternoons, but fuck if she’s going anywhere near said friend’s favorite Upper East Side bar with its $15 branded T-shirts and mechanical bull.)
Any hipster girl worth her Tapatio sauce has at least one made-up, put-together, totally unhipster friend whom she shows off at Bed-Stuy parties and marvels at over coffee—red-eye for Shane, soy chai for Brooke. (Strangely, the hipster half of the pair has no interest in seeing the doll in her natural habitat. In other words, she’s happy to trot her fancy friend around Greenpoint like a prize pony on Sunday afternoons, but fuck if she’s going anywhere near said friend’s favorite Upper East Side bar with its $15 branded T-shirts and mechanical bull.)
The Friend “From Out of Town”
As loathe as they are to admit it, every hipster has a past—a past that most often included a cadre of awkward buds who were similarly really into
The Chronicles of Narnia
and listening to Nick Drake while driving aimlessly around the desolate sprawling suburbs of Middle America, dreaming of the day they’d finally be free from the tyranny of popular Paige and her cronies. Said friend is still a free spirit—she works at the Environmental Protection Agency and lives somewhere kinda cool, like Portland, Maine—but she’s not
quite
up on all the trends. Like, she still reads
The Believer
, and when she visits the hipster ghetto she gapes at all the full-grown men on skateboards and gets super excited when she sees that dude from that band.
The Chronicles of Narnia
and listening to Nick Drake while driving aimlessly around the desolate sprawling suburbs of Middle America, dreaming of the day they’d finally be free from the tyranny of popular Paige and her cronies. Said friend is still a free spirit—she works at the Environmental Protection Agency and lives somewhere kinda cool, like Portland, Maine—but she’s not
quite
up on all the trends. Like, she still reads
The Believer
, and when she visits the hipster ghetto she gapes at all the full-grown men on skateboards and gets super excited when she sees that dude from that band.
That Guy That She Hooks Up with Sometimes
Yeah, man, she’ll call you at 2 a.m. to come over…but if you want to be included in her brunch plans or lazy weekend picnics, you’re S.O.L. Why? I dunno, dude, you’re probably the kind of guy who plays “beer games” with his buds at his parent’s condo in Vermont, or your pants are too loose. Either way, you’re basically a Japanese love pillow: a comforting, kind of weird way to fill a girl’s bed, but not to be paraded around in public.
Yeah, man, she’ll call you at 2 a.m. to come over…but if you want to be included in her brunch plans or lazy weekend picnics, you’re S.O.L. Why? I dunno, dude, you’re probably the kind of guy who plays “beer games” with his buds at his parent’s condo in Vermont, or your pants are too loose. Either way, you’re basically a Japanese love pillow: a comforting, kind of weird way to fill a girl’s bed, but not to be paraded around in public.
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