Read Stuff Hipsters Hate Online
Authors: Brenna Ehrlich,Andrea Bartz
Stuff Hipsters Hate (11 page)
Allow us to introduce you to a little concept we like to call “hipster soft.” Although your average hipster has been blessed (by either nature or the nicotine gods) with a slender frame, many lack what fitness magazines refer to as “muscle tone.” So even though a hipster male may have a broad (albeit sunken) chest and slender waist, just give his midsection a poke—Pillsbury Dough Boy-style—and it’ll bounce right back at ya like the proverbial bowl of jelly.
It’s not that said hipster overindulges. The fleshy expanse is not even the gentle swell of a burgeoning potbelly.
16
It’s just that the concept of strengthening one’s core is as foreign to a hipster as his favorite obscure dance film is to everyone else. While a hipster may have marginally toned arms (from playing various musical instruments) and slightly defined calves (biking 20 miles in the snow will do that to you), he will never have the cut physique of, say, one of
Cosmo
’s 50 most eligible bachelors. That would require sit-ups, and just sitting up is hard enough when you need to drink yourself to sleep in order to make it through those long, cold Brooklyn nights.
16
It’s just that the concept of strengthening one’s core is as foreign to a hipster as his favorite obscure dance film is to everyone else. While a hipster may have marginally toned arms (from playing various musical instruments) and slightly defined calves (biking 20 miles in the snow will do that to you), he will never have the cut physique of, say, one of
Cosmo
’s 50 most eligible bachelors. That would require sit-ups, and just sitting up is hard enough when you need to drink yourself to sleep in order to make it through those long, cold Brooklyn nights.
“Who the fuck uses hair gel? That neon-colored shit with the little bubbles suspended in it? Do you really think I would walk into a bodega and buy myself a bottle of L.A. Looks or whatever the fuck that is? My signature coif is all ozone, Parliament ash and natural musk, thank you very much. (And a little bit of overpriced styling paste. But that’s between me and God.)”
—Randy K., 25, foot messenger and drummer
RHODA:
I wanna day-drink and you’re coming with. Let’s get an early start, so that means you have to be up by, like, three.
I wanna day-drink and you’re coming with. Let’s get an early start, so that means you have to be up by, like, three.
RENEE:
I’ll be up. I think I’m gonna try and get my nails done that morning.
I’ll be up. I think I’m gonna try and get my nails done that morning.
RHODA:
Jesus, you get manicures? I’ve never gotten one.
Jesus, you get manicures? I’ve never gotten one.
RENEE:
Oh, I love them! I go to this little place in the East Village, I always have this really sweet Vietnamese lady.
Oh, I love them! I go to this little place in the East Village, I always have this really sweet Vietnamese lady.
RHODA:
The whole concept is so weird to me. Isn’t it awkward? Sitting there while this immigrant who barely speaks English slaves over your nails?
The whole concept is so weird to me. Isn’t it awkward? Sitting there while this immigrant who barely speaks English slaves over your nails?
RENEE:
Why would it be weird? It’s like, her job.
Why would it be weird? It’s like, her job.
RHODA:
That’s fucked up! Think about it, the woman is actually
washing rich women’s feet
like fucking Mary Magdalene fussing over Jesus’ gnarly sandaled heels.
That’s fucked up! Think about it, the woman is actually
washing rich women’s feet
like fucking Mary Magdalene fussing over Jesus’ gnarly sandaled heels.
RENEE:
Whoa, wasn’t comparing myself to the anointed one, I just like having my fingers French-tipped.
Whoa, wasn’t comparing myself to the anointed one, I just like having my fingers French-tipped.
RHODA:
And do you know how freaking
bad
that shit is for the environment? Fucking killer to all the little dog babies and cat babies they undoubtedly test that glitter-encrusted Princess Crème Puff Pink bottle of evil on.
And do you know how freaking
bad
that shit is for the environment? Fucking killer to all the little dog babies and cat babies they undoubtedly test that glitter-encrusted Princess Crème Puff Pink bottle of evil on.
RENEE:
Don’t be a hypocrite, dude. I mean, you have nail polish on, too!
Don’t be a hypocrite, dude. I mean, you have nail polish on, too!
RHODA:
What? No I don’t!
What? No I don’t!
RENEE:
I’m mean, I have no fucking idea why you would choose a clear yellow polish, but I can totally see it. Don’t front.
I’m mean, I have no fucking idea why you would choose a clear yellow polish, but I can totally see it. Don’t front.
RHODA:
Dude, this is the way my nails
look
. I guess it’s from smoking so many rollies….
Dude, this is the way my nails
look
. I guess it’s from smoking so many rollies….
RENEE:
Uh-huh…
Uh-huh…
RHODA:
Fuck you. At least I don’t murder puppies by proxy.
Fuck you. At least I don’t murder puppies by proxy.
Soap and shampoo and whatnot cost money, and acquiring them involves the unbelievable hassle of, like, going to the store. Therefore, a hipster will attempt to postpone the process of toiletry shopping for as long as possible.
CHAPTER 5
HABITAT
[CASE STUDY]Shirley C. moved to Brooklyn a bright-eyed Midwestern girl with ardent dreams of opening her own gallery/coffee shop/ Laundromat, for which she had already come up with the perfect name: “Spin (Life) Cycle—where both the wireless and creative spirit are free-flowing.” Although she knew to a certain degree that NYC’s cost of living is higher than that of, say, Mount Carroll, Illinois, she also knew that if she was to survive her anguished mid-to-late 20s she would have to move to a town where there were more eligible and enticing mates than that 27-year-old, semiracist legal aid with a gun rack and an unironic passion for taxidermy.During her first year in Brooklyn, Shirley shelled out $1,500 a month for a room in Park Slope—on her parents’ dime, naturally—that lacked a proper door and was often visited (sans invitation) by a stray cat who prowled her fire escape during the night and who also had a time-share with the rats in the garbage can downstairs. Hence, Shirley lovingly called the stray “Garbage Cat.” By year two, Shirley’s trust funds were dwindling, as was her parents’ patience with her“artistic lifestyle” (since she hadn’t quite opened her own coffee shop so much as landed a job in one). Weary of stroller-dodging in the Slope, she scouted out an apartment in Bushwick. She now lives with two Craigslist-found roommates both named Matthew (one of whom she sleeps with when she’s drunk) in a lofted space legally intended to be used as storage. The apartment is located above a funeral home and smells of formaldehyde whenever the outside temperature tops 45 degrees.
For most of the country, that old adage “a man’s home is his castle” rings oh-so-true. Even after racking up a few years of partying (“Hey, even Mom and Dad were crazy back in the day, amirite?”), a typical citizen settles down and focuses on that ultimate life goal of having a mortgage, a roof over his head, top-notch vinyl siding, a backyard swing, a mailbox with his name on it, neighbors to whom to present fruitcakes—in short, home sweet home. Not so for your average hipster. For one, she lacks the funds and foresight to occupy a truly stellar abode, and, two, living in squalor is just more romantic.
Let’s begin by painting a vivid picture of the average hipster’s neighborhood, which is most often a not-yet-fully gentrified locale, i.e., it remains “real.” In New York, those districts include far-flung spots in Brooklyn such as Bushwick or Bed-Stuy. You know how in
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
, the immigrant grandmother character is all about owning land as a way of cementing her place as a true-blue American? Times have changed. Although those immigrants are still living in Brooklyn (in cultural enclaves that they admirably, steadfastly occupy despite the chilling tides of cultural annihilation), they now share the sidewalks and city blocks with a bunch of weirdly clothed arty kids who roam the streets at all hours of the night, peeing on cars and sounding their barbaric yelps to the rooftops. In a sense, hipsters seek out these locales as a way of existing on the margins, living amongst those who have not been truly, fully assimilated into the apple-pie-flavored, BBQ-smoke-laced, morbidly obese American Dream.
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
, the immigrant grandmother character is all about owning land as a way of cementing her place as a true-blue American? Times have changed. Although those immigrants are still living in Brooklyn (in cultural enclaves that they admirably, steadfastly occupy despite the chilling tides of cultural annihilation), they now share the sidewalks and city blocks with a bunch of weirdly clothed arty kids who roam the streets at all hours of the night, peeing on cars and sounding their barbaric yelps to the rooftops. In a sense, hipsters seek out these locales as a way of existing on the margins, living amongst those who have not been truly, fully assimilated into the apple-pie-flavored, BBQ-smoke-laced, morbidly obese American Dream.
Figure 7
: Hipster Density Map
: Hipster Density Map
a. A neighborhood with a Polish bar where only locals hang, one bodega and a taco restaurant.
b. A neighborhood with a Polish bar where locals hang early in the evening (leaving it open for late-night revelry), three bodegas (one with a selection of organic food, one with an array of breakfast cereals and one with soap and stuff), a liquor store and a used bookstore with an amiable bookshop cat.
c. A neighborhood where there’s a central street replete with bars, cafés, bookstores, record shops, boutiques and a single New York Muffin.
d. Anywhere with a Borders.
In addition, these areas often have a relatively low real estate value, as they are located off of undesirable train lines and are regularly featured in the local police blotter. Consequently, apartments are often on the “rustic” side, lacking amenities such as functional bathtub drains, proper heating and cooling systems, and bathroom sinks. However, they do boast mice, roaches and superintendents who make their pocket money via an S&M dungeon run out of the basement of their tenants’ building. While these living situations are far from ideal, the hipster lacks the capital to secure anything better, and seeing as how she most likely labors in an artistic field that renders her completely unable to retain excess funds
(Hey, a girl’s gotta drink—er, paint…)
, she will never be able to stow away enough cash to relocate to a more domesticated living space.
(Hey, a girl’s gotta drink—er, paint…)
, she will never be able to stow away enough cash to relocate to a more domesticated living space.
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