His Hip Materials

From a rather repetitive anti-hipster Adbusters article which, stoner-like, states really obvious things as if they are profound realizations, at least this observational gem emerged: “The dance floor at a hipster party looks like it should be surrounded by quotation marks.” I instantly imagined this delightful hipster party in Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials universe, the air above the dancefloor thick with quotation mark dæmons all glowering at each other.

He Was As Long As His Song Names

While I try to find the time to write about the Bangkok tranny who laughed out loud at the immensity of my hips, and the go-go boys who played soccer with their dicks, you may wish to partake of some rather more refined knob jokes. I present to you hipster erotica:

“Sufjan Stevens and I sat on the edge of my bed and talked for hours about everything. It sounds dumb to say it, but he actually gets me. He said that I was one of the most genuine people he’d ever met, and that I was actually cool, not like one of those people who obviously wants to be cool, but who just is, like a coolness that comes from deep within and is as much a refutation of cool as an embrace of it.”

All I Was Missing Was The Trucker Cap

As usual, I woke up late, threw on some clothes, grabbed my bag and headed out for my morning lectures. Later, I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror and was slightly horrified at my indie conformity – black Sonic Youth T-shirt, black plastic specs, bedhead hair, copy of Garden State in my hand. If I were a jock, I’d beat me up.

So tomorrow I’m wearing an orange halter-neck top and skanky hoop earrings. Better ho than hipster.